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THE 

COMPLETE WORKS 

OF 

EOBEET BURNS; 

WITH AN 

ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, 

AND 

A CRITICISM ON HIS WRITINGS. 

TO WHICH ABE PREFIXED, 
SOME OBSERVATIONS ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION 

OP 

THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. 



BY JAMES CURRIE, M. D. 



A NEW AND COMPLETE EDITION, 
WITH 

AN ENLARGED AND CORRECTED GLOSSARY. 



ABERDEEN: 

PUBLISHED BY GEORGE CLARK AND SON. 

IPSWICH :— J. M. BURTON. 

MDcecxifYin. 



/ 






V w 



TO 

CAPTAIN GHAHAM MOOKE, 

OF THE ROYAL NAVY. 



When you were stationed upon our coast about twelve years ago, 

you first recommended to my particular notice the poems of the 

Ayrshire ploughman, whose works, published for the benefit of his 

widow and children, I now present to you. In a distant region of 

e world, whither the service of your country has carried you, you 

11, 1 know, receive with kindness this proof of my regard ; not 

'rhaps without some surprise on finding that I have been engaged 

: editing these volumes, nor without some curiosity to know how I 

as qualified for such an undertaking. These points I will briefly 

splain. 

Having occasion to make an excursion to the county of Dumfries, 
a the summer of 1792, 1 had there an opportunity of seeing and 
conversing with Burns. It has been my fortune to know some men 
jf high reputation in literature, as well as in public life, but never 
«-,o meet any one who, in the course of a single interview, communi- 
cated to me so strong an impression of the force and versatility of 
his talents. After this I read the poems then published with 
greater interest and attention, and with a full conviction that, ex- 
traordinary as they are, they afford but an inadequate proof of the 
powers of their unfortunate author. 

Four years afterwards, Burns terminated his career. Among 
those whom the charms of genius had attached to him, was one 
with whom I have been bound in the ties of friendship, from early 
life— Mr. John Syme of Ryedale. This Gentleman, after the death 
of Burns, promoted with the utmost zeal a subscription for the sup- 
port of the widow and children, to which their relief from imme- 
diate distress is to be ascribed; and, in conjunction with other 
friends of this virtuous and destitute family, he projected the publi- 



VI DEDICATION. 

cation of this volume for their benefit, by which the return of want 
might be prevented or prolonged. 

To this last undertaking, an editor and biographer was wanting ; 
and Mr. Syme's modesty opposed a barrier to his assuming an office 
for which he was in other respects peculiarly qualified. On this 
subject he consulted me ! and with the hope of surmounting his 
objections, I offered him my assistance, but in vain. Endeavours 
were used to procure an editor in other quarters, but without ef- 
fect. The task was beset with considerable difficulties ; and men 
of established reputation naturally declined an undertaking, to the 
performance of which it was scarcely to be hoped that general ap- 
probation could be obtained, by any exertion of judgment or temper. 

To such an office, my place of residence, my accustomed studies, 
and my occupation, were certainly little suited ; but the partiality 
of Mr. Syme thought me in other respects not unqualified ; and his 
solicitations, joined to those of our excellent friend and relation 
Mrs. Dunlop, and of other friends of the family of the poet, I have 
not been able to resist. To remove difficulties which would other- 
wise have been insurmountable, Mr. Syme and Mr. Gilbert Burns 
made a journey to Liverpool, where they explained and arranged 
the manuscripts, and arranged such as seemed worthy of the press. 
From this visit I derived a degree of pleasure which has compen- 
sated much of my labour. I had the satisfaction of renewing my 
personal intercourse with a much valued friend, and of forming an 
acquaintance with a man closely allied to Burns in talents as well 
as in blood, in whose future fortunes the friends of virtue will not, 
I trust, be uninterested. 

The publication of these volumes has been delayed by obstacles 
which these gentlemen could neither remove nor foresee, and which 
it would be tedious to enumerate. At length the task is finished. 
If the part which I have taken, shall serve the interest of the fa- 
mily, and receive the approbation of good men, I shall have my re- 
compense. The errors into which I have fallen are not, I hope, 
very important ; and they will be easily accounted for by those who 
know the circumstances under which this undertaking has been per- 
formed. Generous minds will receive the posthumous works of 
Burns with candour, and even partiality, as the remains of an un* 



DEDICATION. Vll 

fortunate man of genius, published for the benefit of his family, as 
the stay of the widow, and the hope of the fatherless. 

To secure the suffrages of such minds, all topics are omitted in 
the writings, and avoided in the life of Burns, that have a tendency 
to awaken the animosity of party. In perusing the following vo- 
lumes, no offence will be received, except by those to whom the 
natural erect aspect of genius is offensive ; characters that will 
scarcely be found among those who are educated to the profession 
of arms. Such men do not court situations of danger, nor tread in 
the paths of glory. They will not be found in your service, which 
in our own days, emulates on another element, the superior fame of 
the Macedonian phalanx, or of the Roman legion, and which has 
lately made the shores of Europe and of Africa, resound with the 
shouts of victory, from the Texel to the Tagus, and from the Tagus 
to the Nile ! 

The works of Burns will be received favourably by one who 
stands in the foremost rank of this noble service, and who deserves 
his station. On the land or on the sea, I know no man more capa- 
ble of judging of the character or of the writings of this original ge- 
nius. Homer, and Shakspeare, and Ossian, cannot always occupy 
your leisure. These volumes may sometimes engage your attention, 
while the steady breezes of the tropic swell your sails, and in ano- 
ther quarter of the earth, charm you with the strains of nature, or 
awake in your memory the scenes of your early days. Suffer me to 
hope that they may sometimes recall to your mind the friend who 
addresses you, and who bids you most affectionately adieu* 

J. CURRIE. 

Liverpool, 1st May 1800. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



It is impossible to dismiss this volume* of the correspondence of our Bard, 
without some anxiety as to the reception it may meet with. The experiment we 
are making has not often been tried ; perhaps on no occasion has so large a por- 
tion of the recent and unpremeditated effusions of a man of genius been committed 
to the press. 

Of the following letters of Burns, a considerable number were transmitted for 
publication, by the individuals to whom they were addressed ; but very few have 
been printed entire. It will easily be believed, that in a series of letters written 
without the least view to publication, various passages were found unfit for the 
press, from different considerations. It will also be readily supposed, that our 
Poet, writing nearly at the same time, and under the same feelings to different in- 
dividuals, would sometimes fall into the s me train of sentiment and forms of ex- 
pression. To avoid, therefore, the tediousness of such repetitions, it has been 
found necessary to mutilate many of the individual letters, and sometimes to ex- 
scind parts of great delicacy — the unbridled effusions of panegyric and regard. 
But though many of the letters are printed from originals furnished by the per- 
sons to whom they were addressed, others are printed from first draughts, or 
sketches, found among the papers of our Bard. Though in general no man com- 
mitted his thoughts to his correspondents with less consideration or effort than 
Burns, yet it appears that in some instances he was dissatisfied with his first essays 
and wrote out his communications in a fairer character ; or perhaps in more stu- 
died language. In the chaos of his manuscripts, some of the original sketches 
were found ; and as these sketches, though less perfect, are fairly to be considered 
as the offspring of his mind, where they h ive seemed in themselves worthy of a 
place in this volume, we have not hesitated to insert them, though they may not 
always correspond exactly with the letters transmitted, which have been lost or 
withheld. 

Our author appears at one time to have formed an intention of making a collec- 
tion of his letters for the amusement of a friend. Accordingly he copied an in- 
considerable number of them into a book, which he presented to Robert Riddel, 
of Glenriddel, Esq. Among these was the account of his life, addressed to Dr. 
Moore. In copying from his imperfect sketches (it does not appear that he had 
the letters actually sent to his correspondents before him) he seems to have occa- 
sionally enlarged his observations, and altered his expressions. In such instances 
his emendations have been adopted ; but in truth there are but five of the letters 
thus selected by the poet, to be found in the present volume, the rest being thought 
of inferior merit, or otherwise unfit for the public eye. 

In printing this volume, the Editor has found some corrections of grammar ne- 
cessary ; but these have been very few, and such as may be supposed to occur in 
the careless effusions, even of literary characters, who have not been in the habit 
of carrying their compositions to the press. These corrections have never been 
extended to any habitual modes of expression of the Poet, even where his phraseo- 
logy may >eem to violate the delicacies of taste; or the idiom of our language, 
which he wrote in general with great accuracy. Some difference will indeed be 
found in this respect in his earlier and in his later compositions ; and this volume 
will exhibit the progrses of his style, as well as the history of his mind. In the 
Fourth Edition, several new letters were introduced, and some of inferior impor- 
tance were omitted. 



* Dr. Currie's edition of Burn's Works was originally published in four vo« 
lumes, of which the following Correspondence formed the second. 



LIFE 

OF 

ROBERT BURNS. 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 

Though the dialect, in which many of the happiest effusions of 
Robert Burns are composed, be peculiar to Scotland, yet his reputa- 
tion has extended itself beyond the limits of that country, and his 
poetry has been admired as the offspring of original genius, by per- 
sons of taste, in every part of the sister islands. The interest ex- 
cited by his early death, and the distress of his infant family, has 
been felt in a remarkable manner, wherever his writings have been 
known : and these posthumous volumes, which give to the world 
his works complete, and which, it is hoped, may raise his Widow 
and Children from penury, are printed and published in England. 
It seems proper, therefore, to write the memoirs of his life, not 
with the view of their being read by Scotchmen only, but also by 
natives of England, and of other countries where the English 
language is spoken or understood. 

Robert Burns was, in reality, what he has been represented to be, 
a Scottish peasant To render the incidents of his humble story 
generally intelligible, it seems, therefore, advisable to prefix some 
observations on the character and situation of the order to which he 
belonged — a class of men distinguished by many peculiarities : by 
this means we shall form a more correct notion of the advantages 
with which he started, and of the obstacles which he surmounted. 
A few observations on the Scottish peasantry will not, perhaps, be 
found unworthy of attention in other respects ; and the subject is, 
in a great measure, new. Scotland has produced persons of high 
distinction in every branch of philosophy and literature ; and her 
history, while a separate and independent nation, has been success- 
fully explored. But the present character of the people was not 
then formed ; the nation then presented features similar to those 
which the feudal system and the Catholic religion had diffused over 
Europe, modified, indeed, by the peculiar nature of her territory 
and climate. The Reformation, by which such important changes 
were produced on the national character, was speedily followed by 
the Accession of the Scottish monarchs to the English throne ; and 
the period which elapsed from that Accession to the Union has been 
rendered memorable, chiefly by those bloody convulsions in which 
a 5 



X PBlFATORY REMARKS, 

both divisions of the island were involved, and which in a con* 
siderable degree, concealed from the eye of the historian the do- 
mestic history of the people, and the gradual variations in their 
condition and manners. Since the Union, Scotland, though the 
seat of two unsuccessful attempts to restore the House of Stuart to 
the throne, has enjoyed a comparative tranquillity; and it is since 
this period that the present character of her peasantry has been in 
a great measure formed, though the political causes affecting it are 
to be traced to the previous acts of her separate legislature. 

A slight acquaintance with the peasantry of Scotland will serve 
to convince an unprejudiced observer, that they possess a degree of 
intelligence not generally found among the same class of men in 
the other countries of Europe. In the very humblest condition of 
the Scottish peasants, every one can read, and most persons are 
more or less skilled in writing and arithmetic ; and, under the dis- 
guise of their uncouth appearance, and of their peculiar manners 
and dialect, a stranger will discover that they possess a curiosity 
and have obtained a degree of information, corresponding to these 
acquirements. 

These advantages they owe to the legal provision made by the 
parliament of Scotland in 1646, for the establishment of a school in 
every parish throughout the kingdom, for the express purpose of 
educating the poor ; a law which may challenge comparison with 
any act of legislation to be found in the records of history, whether 
we consider the wisdom ot the ends in view, the simplicity of the 
means employed, or the provisions made to render these effectual to 
their purpose. This excellent statute was repealed on the accession 
of Charles II. in 1660, together with all the other laws passed 
during the commonwealth, as not being sanctioned by the royal 
assent. It slept during the reigns of Charles and James, but was 
re enacted precisely in the same terms, by the Scottish parliament, 
after the Ee volution in 1696 ; and this is the last provision on the 
subject. Its effects on the national character may be considered 
to have commenced about the period of the Union ; and doubtless 
it co-operated with the peace and security arising from that happy 
event, in producing the extraordinary change in favour of industry 
and good morals, which the character of the common people of 
Scotland has since undergone. 

The church-establishment of Scotland happily coincides with the 
institution just mentioned, which may be called its school- establish- 
ment. The clergyman, being every where resident in his particular 
parish, becomes the natural patron and superintendent of the 
parish school, and is enabled in various ways to promote the com- 
fort of the teacher, and the proficiency of the scholars. The 
teacher himself is often a candidate for holy orders, who, during 
the long course of study and probation required in the Scottish 
church, renders the time which can be spared from his professional 
studies, useful to others as well as to himself, by assuming the re- 
spectable character ot a schoolmaster. It is common for the estab- 
lished schools, even in the country parishes of Scotland, to enjoy 
the means of classical instruction ; and many of the farmers, and 
even some of the cottagers, submit to much privation, that they 
may obtain, for one of their sons at least, the precarious advantage 






PREFATORY REMARKS. X 

of a learned education. The difficulty to be surmounted arises in- 
deed not from the expense of instructing their children, but from 
the charge of supporting them. In the country parish-schools, the 
English language, writing, and accounts are generally taught at the 
rate of six shillings, and Latin at the rate of ten or twelve shillings 
per annum. In the town, the prices are somewhat higher. 

It would be improper in this place to inquire minutely into the 
degree of instruction received at these seminaries, or to attempt 
any precise estimate of its effects, either on the individuals who 
are the subjects of this instruction, or on the community to which 
they belong. That it is on the whole favourable to industry and 
morals, though doubtless with some individual exceptions, seems to 
be proved by the most striking and decisive experience ; and it is 
equally clear, that it is the cause of that spirit of emigration and 
of adventure so prevalent among the Scotch. Knowledge has, by 
Lord Verulam, been denominated power; by others it has, with 
less propriety, been denominated virtue or happiness : we may 
with confidence consider it as motion. A human being, in propor- 
tion as he is informed, has his wishes enlarged, as well as the means 
of gratifying those wishes. He may be considered as taking within 
the sphere of his vision a larger portion of the globe on which we 
tread, and spying advantage at a greater distance on its surface. 
His desires or ambition, once excited, are stimulated by his imagi- 
nation ; and distant and uncertain objects, giving freer scope to the 
operation of this faculty, often acquire, in the mind of the youthful 
adventurer, an attraction from their very distance and uncertainty. 
If, therefore, a greater degree of instruction be given to the peasan- 
try of a country comparatively poor, in the neighbourhood of other 
countries rich in natural and acquired advantages ; and if the bar- 
riers be removed that kept them separate, emigration from the 
former to the latter will take place to a certain extent, by laws 
nearly as uniform as those by which heat diffuses itself among sur- 
rounding bodies, or water finds its level when left to its natural 
course. By the articles of the Union, the barrier was broken down 
which divided the two British nations, and knowledge and poverty 
poured the adventurous natives of the north over the fertile plains 
of England, and more especially, over the colonies which she had 
settled in the East and in the West. The stream of population 
continues to flow from the north to the south ; for the causes that 
originally impelled it, continue to operate ; and the richer country 
is constantly invigorated by the accession of an informed and hardy 
race of men, educated in poverty, and prepared for hardship and 
danger, patient of labour, and prodigal of life. 

The preachers of the ^Reformation in Scotland were disciples of 
Calvin, and brought with them the temper as well as the tenets of 
that celebrated heresiarch. The presbyterian form of worship and 
of church government was endeared to the people, from its being 
established by themselves. It was endeared to them, also, by the 
struggle it had to maintain with the Catholic and the Protestant 
episcopal churches, over both which, after a hundred years of fierce, 
and sometimes bloody contention, it finally triumphed, receiving 
the countenance of government, and the sanction of law. During 
this long period of contention and of Buffering, the temper of the 



Xii PREFATORY REMARKS. 

people became more and more obstinate and bigotted ; and the 
nation received the deep tinge of fanaticism, which colonred their 
public transactions as well as their private virtues, and of which 
evident traces may be found in our own times. When the public 
schools were established, the instruction communicated in them 
partook of the religious character of the people. The Catechism of 
the Westminster Divines was the universal school-book, and was 
put into the hands of the young peasant as soon as he had acquired 
a knowledge of his alphabet ; and his first exercises in the art of 
reading introduced him to the most mysterious doctrines of the 
Christian faith. This practice is continued in our own times. 
After the Assembly's Catechism, the Proverbs of Solomon, and the 
New and Old Testament, follow in regular succession; and the 
scholar departs, gifted with the knowledge of the sacred writings, 
and receiving their doctrines according to the interpretation of the 
Westminster Confession of Faith. Thus with the instruction of in- 
fancy in the schools of Scotland, are blended the dogmas of the na- 
tional church ; and hence the first and most constant exercise of 
ingenuity among the peasantry of Scotland, is displayed in religious 
disputation. With a strong attachment to the national creed, is 
conjoined a bigotted preference of certain forms of worship ; the 
source of which would be often altogether obscure, if we did not 
recollect that the ceremonies of the Scottish Church were framed 
in direct opposition, in every point, to those of the Church of Rome. 

The eccentricities of conduct, and singularities of opinion and 
manners, which characterized the English sectaries in the last cen- 
tury, afforded a subject for the muse of Butler, whose pictures lose 
their interest, since their archetypes are lost. Some of the pecu- 
liarities common among the more rigid disciples of Calvinism in 
Scotland, in the present times, have given scope to the ridicule of 
Burns, whose humour is equal to Butler's, and whose drawings 
from living manners are singularly expressive and exact. Unfor- 
tunately the correctness of his taste did not always correspond with 
the strength of his genius ; and hence some of the most exquisite 
of the comic productions are rendered unfit for the light. 

The information and the religious education of the peasantry of 
Scotland, promote sedateness of conduct, and habits of thought and 
reflection. — These good qualities are not counteracted by the esta- 
blishment of poor-laws, which while they reflect credit on the bene- 
volence, detract from the wisdom of the English legislature. To 
make a legal provision for the inevitable distress of the poor, who 
by age or disease are rendered incapable of labour, may indeed 
seem an indispensable duty of society ; and if, in the execution of 
a plan for this purpose, a distinction could be introduced, so as to 
exclude from its benefits those whose sufferings are produced by 
idleness or profligacy, such an institution would perhaps be as 
rational as humane. But to lay a general tax on property for the 
support of poverty, from whatever cause proceeding, is a measure 
full of danger. It must operate in a considerable degree as a 
bounty on idleness, and a duty on industry. It takes away from 
vice and indolence the prospect of their most dreaded consequences, 
and from virtue and industry their peculiar sanctions. In many 
<tases it must render the rise in the price of labour, not a blessing, 



PREFATORY REMARKS. Xlll 

but a curse to the labourer ; who, if there be an excess in what 
he earns beyond his immediate necessities, may be expected to de- 
vote this excess to his present gratification ; trusting to the provi- 
sion made by law for his own and his family's support, should 
disease suspend, or death terminate his labours. Happily in Scot- 
land, the same legislature which established a system of instruction 
for the poor, resisted the introduction of a legal provision for the 
support of poverty ; what they granted on the one hand, and what 
they refused on tlie other, was equally favourable to industry and 
good morals ; and hence it will not appear surprising, if the Scot- 
tish peasantry have a more than usual share of prudence and reflec- 
tion, if they approach nearer than persons of their order usually 
do, to the definition of man, that of " a being that looks before and 
after." These observations must indeed be taken with many ex- 
ceptions : the favourable operation of the causes just mentioned is 
counteracted by others of an opposite tendency ; and the subject, if 
fully examined, would lead to discussions of great extent. 

When the reformation was established in Scotland, instrumental 
music was banished from the churches, as savouring too much of 
"profane minstrelsy." Instead of being regulated by an instru- 
ment, the voices of the congregation are led and directed by a per- 
son under the name of a precentor; and the people are all expected 
to join in the tune which he chooses for the psalm which is to be 
sung. Church-music is therefore a part of the education of the 
peasantry in Scotland, in which they are usually instructed in the 
long winter nights by the parish schoolmaster, who is generally the 
precentor, or by itinerant teachers more celebrated for their powers 
of voice. This branch of education had, in the last reign, fallen 
into some neglect, but was revived about thirty or forty years ago, 
when the music itself was reformed and improved. The Scottish 
system of psalmody is however radically bad. Destitute of taste or 
harmony, it forms a striking contrast with the delicacy and pathos 
of the profane airs. Our poet, it will be found, was taught church- 
music, in which, however, he made little proficiency. 

That dancing should also be very generally a part of the educa- 
tion of the Scottish peasantry, will surprise those who have only 
seen this description of men ; and still more those who reflect on 
the rigid spirit of Calvinism with which the nation is so deeply 
affected, and to which this recreation is so strongly abhorrent. The 
winter is also the season when they acquire dancing, and indeed al- 
most all their other instruction. They are taught to dance by per- 
sons generally of their own number, many of whom work at daily 
labour during the summer months. The school is usually a barn, 
and the arena for the performers is generally a clay floor. The 
dome is lighted by candles stuck in one end of a cloven stick, the 
other end of which is thrust into the wall. Reels, strathspeys 
country- dances, and hornpipes, are here practised. The jig, so 
much in favour among the English peasantry, has no place among 
them. The attachment of the people of Scotland, of every rank, 
and particularly of the peasantry, to this amusement, is very great. 
After the labours of the day are over, young men and women walk 
many miles, in the cold and dreary night of winter, to these coun- 
try dancing-schools ; and the instant that the violin sounds a Scot. 



Xiv PREFATOR? REMARKS. 

tish air, fatigue seems to vanish, the toil-bent rustic becomes erect, 
his features brighten with sympathy ; every nerve seems to thrill 
with sensation, and every artery to vibrate with life. These rustic 
performers are indeed less to be admired for grace, than for agility 
and animation, and their accurate observance of time. Their modes 
of dancing, as well as their tunes, are common to every rank in 
Scotland, and are now generally known. In our own day they have 
penetrated into England, and have established themselves even in 
the circle of Koyalty. In another generation they will be natura- 
lized in every part of the island. 

The prevalence of this taste, or rather passion for dancing, 
among a people so deeply tinctured with the spirit and doctrines of 
Calvin, is one of those contradictions which the philosophic ob- 
server so often finds in national character and manners. It is pro* 
bably to be ascribed to the Scottish music, which, throughout all 
its varieties, is so full of sensibility, and which, in its livelier 
strains, awaken those vivid emotions that find in dancing their 
natural solace and relief. 

This triumph of the music of Scotland over the spirit of the 
established religion, has not, however, been obtained without long 
continued and obstinate struggles. The numerous sectaries who 
dissent from the establishment on account of the relaxation which 
they perceive or think they perceive, in the Church, from original 
doctrines and discipline, universally condemn the practice of 
dancing, and the schools where it is taught; and the more elderly 
and serious part of the people, of every persuasion, tolerate rather 
than approve these meetings of the young of both sexes, where 
dancing is practised to their spirit-stirring music, where care is 
dispelled, toil is forgotten, and prudence itself is sometimes lulled 
to sleep. 

The Reformation, which proved fatal to the rise of the other fine 
arts in Scotland, probably impeded, but could not obstruct, the 
progress of its music ; a circumstance that will convince the im- 
partial inquirer, that this music not only existed previous to that 
era, but had taken a firm hold of the nation ; thus affording a 
proof of its antiquity, stronger than any produced by the researches 
of our antiquaries. 

The impression which the Scottish music has made on the people, 
is deepened by its union with the national songs, of which various 
collections of unequal merit are before the public. These songs, 
like those of other nations, are many of them humorous, they 
chiefly treat of love, war, and drinking. Love is the subject of 
the greater proportion. Without displaying the higher powers of 
the imagination, they exhibit a perfect knowledge of the human 
heart, and breathe a spirit of affection, and sometimes of delicate 
and romantic tenderness, not to be surpassed in modern poetry, 
and which the more polished strains of antiquity have seldom 
possessed. 

The origin of this amatory character in the rustic muse of Scot- 
land, or of the greater number of those love- songs themselves, it 
would be difficult jfco trace; they have accumulated in the silent 
lapse of time, and it is now perhaps impossible to give an arrange- 
ment of them in the order of their date, valuable as such a recor 



PkfcfrATOR? REMARKS. XV 

of taste and manners would be. Their present influence on 
the character of the nation is, however, great and striking. To 
them we must attribute, in a great measure, the romantic passion 
which so often characterizes the attachments of the humblest of 
the people of Scotland, to a degree, that if we mistake not, is 
seldom found in the same rank of society in other countries. The 
pictures of love and happiness exhibited in their rural songs, are 
early impressed on the minds of the peasant, and are rendered 
more attractive from the music with which they are united. They 
associate themselves with his own youthful emotions ; they elevate 
the object as well as the nature of his attachment ; and give to 
the impressions of sense the beautiful colours of imagination. 
Hence in the course of his passion, a Scottish peasant often exerts 
a spirit of adventure, of which a Spanish cavalier need not be 
ashamed. After the labours of the day are over, he sets out for 
the habitation of his mistress, perhaps at many miles distance, 
regardless of the length or the dreariness of the way. He ap- 
proaches her in secret, under the disguise of night. A. signal at 
the door or window, perhaps agreed on, and understood by none 
but her, gives information of his arrival ; and sometimes it is re- 
peated again and again, before the capricious fair one will obey the 
summons. But if she favours his addresses, she escapes unobserved, 
and receives the vows of her lover under the gloom of twilight, or 
the deeper shade of night. Interviews of this kind are the subjects 
of many of the Scottish songs, some of the most beautiful of which 
Burns has imitated or improved. In the art which they celebrate 
he was perfectly skilled ; he knew and had practised all its 
mysteries. Intercourse of this sort is indeed universal, even in the 
humblest condition of man, in every region of the earth. But it 
is not unnatural to suppose, that it may exist in a greater degree, 
and in a more romantic form, among the peasantry of a country 
who is supposed to be more than commonly instructed ; who find 
in their rural songs expressions of their youthful emotions ; and 
in whom the embers of passion are continually fanned by the 
breathings of a music full of tenderness and sensibility. The 
direct influence of physical causes or the attachment between the 
sexes is comparatively small, but it is modified by moral causes 
beyond any other affection of the mind. Of these music and poetry 
are the chief. Among the snows of Lapland, and under the burn- 
ing sun of Angola, the savage is seen hastening to his mistress, and 
every where he beguiles the weariness of his journey with poetry 
and song. 

In appreciating the happiness and virtue of a community, there 
is perhaps no single criterion on which so much dependence may 
be placed, as the state of the intercourse between the sexes. Where 
this displays ardour of attachment, accompanied by purity of con- 
duct, the character and the influence of women rise in society, our 
imperfect nature mounts on the scale of moral excellence, and from 
the source of this single affection, a stream of felicity descends, 
which branches into a thousand rivulets that enrich and adorn the 
field of life. Where the attachment between the sexes sinks into 
an appetite, the heritage of our species is comparatively poor, and 
man approaches the condition of the brutes that pmsh. " If we could 



Xvi PREFATORY REMARKS. 

■with safety indulge the pleasing supposition that Fingal lived and 
that Ossian sung," Scotland, judging from this criterion, might be 
considered as ranking high in happiness and virtue in very remote 
ages. To appreciate her situation by the same criterion in our own 
times, would be a delicate and difficult undertaking. After con- 
sidering the probable influence of her popular songs and her national 
music, and examining how far the effects to be expected from these 
are supported by facts, the inquirer would also have to examine the 
influence of other causes, and particularly of her civil and ecclesi- 
astical institutions, by which the character, and even the manners 
of a people, though silently and slowly, are often powerfully con- 
trolled. In the point of view in which we are considering the sub- 
ject, the ecclesiastical establishments of Scotland may be supposed 
peculiarly favourable to purity of conduct. The dissoluteness of 
manners among the Catholic clergy, which preceded, and in some 
measure produced the Keformation, led to an extraordinary strict- 
ness on the part of the reformers, and especially in that particular 
in which the licentiousness of the clergy had been carried to its 
greatest height — the intercourse between the sexes. On this point, 
as on all others connected with austerity of manners, the disciples 
of Calvin assumed a greater severity than those of the Protestant 
episcopal church. The punishment of illicit connexion between 
the sexes was, throughout all Europe, a province which the clergy 
assumed to themselves ; and the church of Scotland, which at the 
Keformation renounced so many powers and privileges, at that 
period took this crime under her more especial jurisdiction. — Where 
pregnancy takes place without marriage, the condition of the female 
causes the discovery, and it is on her, therefore, in the first instance, 
that the clergy and elders of the church exercise their zeal. After 
examination before the kirk-session touching the circumstance of 
her guilt, she must endure a public penance, and sustain a public 
rebuke from the pulpit, for three Sabbaths successively, in the face 
of the congregation to which she belongs, and thus have her weak- 
ness exposed, and her shame blazoned. The sentence is the same 
with respect to the male; but how much lighter the punishment ! 
It is well known that this dreadful law, worthy of the iron minds 
of Calvin and of Knox, has often led to consequences, at the very 
mention of which human nature recoils. 

While the punishment of incontinence prescribed by the institu- 
tions of Scotland, is severe, the culprits have an obvious method of 
avoiding it, afforded them by the law respecting marriage, the va- 
validity of which requires neither the ceremonies, of the church, 
nor any other ceremonies, but simply the deliberate acknowledge- 
ment of each other as husband and wife, made by the parties before 
witnesses, or in any other way that gives legal evidence of such an 
acknowledgment having taken place. And as the parties them- 
selves fix the date of their marriage, an opportunity is thus given 
to avoid the punishment, and repair the consequences of illicit 
gratification. Such a degree of laxity respecting so serious a con- 
tract might produce much confusion in the descent of property, 
without a still farther indulgence ; but the law of Scotland 
legitimating all children born before wedlock, on the subsequent 
marriage of their parents, renders the actual date of the marriage 



PREFATORY REMARKS. XVll 

itself of little consequence. Marriages contracted in Scotland 
Lthout the ceremonies of the church are considered as irregular , 
id the parties usually submit to a rebuke for their conduct, in the 
face of their respective congregations, which is not, however, ne- 
cessary to render the marriage valid. Burns, whose marriage it will 
appear, was irregular, does not seem to have undergone this part of 
the discipline of the church. 

Thus, though the institutions of Scotland are in many particulars 
favourable to a conduct among the peasantry founded on foresight, 
and reflection, on the subject of marriage the reverse of this is true. 
Irregular marriages, it may be naturally supposed, are often im- 
provident ones, in whatever rank of society they occur. The children 
of such marriages, poorly endowed by their parents, find a certain 
degree of instruction of easy acquisition ; but the comforts of life, 
and the gratifications of ambition, they find of more difficult attain- 
ment in their native soil ; and thus the marriage laws of Scotland 
conspire with other circumstance, to produce that habit of emigration 
and spirit of adventure, for which the people are so remarkable. 

The manners and appearance of the Scottish peasantry do not 
bespeak to a stranger the degree of their cultivation. In their own 
country, their industry is inferior to that of the same description of 
men in the southern division of the island. Industry and the use- 
ful arts reached Scotland later than England ; and though their 
advance has been rapid there, the effects produced are as yet 
far inferior, both in reality and in appearance. The Scottish farmers 
have in general neither the opulence nor the comforts of those of 
Eagland — neither vest the same capital in the soil, nor receive from 
it the same return. Their clothing, their food, and their habi- 
tations, are almost every where inferior. Their appearance in these 
respects corresponds with the appearance of their country i and 
under the operation of patient industry, both are improving. In- 
dustry and the useful arts came later into Scotland than into Eng- 
land, because the security of property came later. With causes of 
internal agitation and warfare similar to those which occurred to 
the more southern nation, the people of Scotland were exposed to 
more imminent hazards, and more extensive and destructive spol- 
iation, from external war. Occupied in the maintenance of their 
independence against their more powerful neighbours, to this were 
necessarily sacrificed the arts of peace, and at certain periods, the 
flower of their population. And when the union of the crowns 
produced a security from national wars with England for the 
century succeeding, the civil wars common to both divisions of the 
island, and the dependence, perhaps the necessary dependence of 
the Scottish councils on those of the more powerful kingdom, coun- 
teracted this advantage. Even the union of the British nations 
was not, from obvious causes, immediately followed by all the be- 
nefits which it was ultimately destined to produce. At length, 
however, these benefits are distinctly felt, and generally acknowled- 
ged. Property is secure ; manufactures and commerce increasing, 
and agriculture is rapidly improving in Scotland. As yet, indeed, 
the farmers are not, in general, enabled to make improvements out 
of their own capitals, as in England ; but the landholders, who 
have seen and felt the advantages resulting from them, contribute 



XV11I 



prefatory Remarks. 



towards them with a liberal hand. Hence property, as well as po- 
pulation, is accumulating rapidly on the Scottish soil ; and the na- 
tion, enjoying a great part of the blessings of Englishmen, and retain- 
ing several of their own happy institutions, might be considered, 
if confidence could be placed in human foresight, to be as yet only 
in an early stage of their progress. Yet there are obstructions in 
their way. To the cultivation of the soil are opposed the extent 
and the strictness of the entails : to the improvement of the people 
the rapidly increasing use of spirituous liquors, a detestable practice, 
which includes in its consequences almost every evil, physical and 
moral. The peculiarly social disposition of the Scottish peasantry 
exposes them to this practice. This disposition, which is fostered 
by their national songs and music, is perhaps characteristic of the 
nation at large. Though the source of many pleasures, it counter- 
acts by its consequences the effects of their patience, industry, and 
frugality both at home and abroad, of which those especially who 
have witnessed the progress of Scotsmen in other countries, must 
have known many striking instances. 

Since the Union, the manners and language of the peoj>le of 
Scotland have no longer a standard among themselves, but are tried 
by the standard of the nation to which they are united. — Though 
their habits are far from being flexible, yet it is evident that their 
manners and dialect are undergoing a rapid change. Even the 
farmers of the present day appear to have less of the peculiarities of 
their country in their speech, than the men of letters of the last 
generation. Burns, who never left the island, nor penetrated far- 
ther into England than Carlisle on the one hand, or Newcastle on 
the other, had less of the Scottish dialect than Hume, who lived for 
many years in the best society in England and France ; or perhaps 
than Robertson, who wrote the English language in a style of such 
purity ; and if he had been in other respects fitted to take a lead 
in the British House of Commons, his pronunciation would neither 
have fettered his eloquence, nor deprived it of its due effect. 

A striking particular in the character of the Scottish peasantry, 
is one which it is hoped will not be lost— the strength of their do- 
mestic attachments. The privations to which many parents sub- 
mit for the good of their children, and particularly to obtain for 
them instruction, which they consider as the chief good, has already 
been noticed. If their children live and prosper, they have their 
certain reward, not merely as witnessing, but as sharing of their 
prosperity. Even in the humblest ranks of the peasantry, the earn- 
ings of the children may generally be considered as at the disposal 
of their parents ; perhaps in no country is so large a portion of the 
wages of labour applied to the support and comfort of those whose 
days of labour are past. A similar strength of attachment extends 
through all the domestic relations. 

Our poet took largely of this amiable characteristic of his hum- 
ble compeers ; he was also strongly tinctured with another striking 
feature which belongs to them, — a partiality for his native country, 
of which many proofs may be found in his writings. This, it must 
be confessed, is a very strong and general sentiment among the na- 
tives of Scotland, differing however in its character, according to 



PREtfAtOfttf REMARKS. xix 

the character of the different minds in which it is found ; in some 
appearing a selfish prejudice, in others a generous affection. 

An attachment to the land of their birth is, indeed, common to 
all men. It is found among all the inhabitants of every region of 
the earth, from the arctic to the antarctic circle, in all the vast va- 
riety of climate, of surface, of civilization. To analyze this gene- 
ral sentiment, to trace it through the mazes of association up to 
the primary affection in which it has its source, would neither be a 
difficult nor unpleasing labour. On the first consideration of the 
subject, we should, perhaps expect to find this attachment strong 
in proportion to the physical advantage of the soil; but inquiry, 
far from confirming this supposition, seems rather to lead to an op- 
posite conclusion. — In those fertile regions where beneficent 
nature yields almost spontaneously whatever is necessary to hu- 
man wants, patriotism, as well as every other generous sentiment, 
seems weak and languid. In countries less richly endowed, where 
the comforts, and even necessaries of life, must be purchased by 
patient toil, the affections of the mind, as the faculties of the un- 
derstanding, improve under exertion, and patriotism flourishes 
amidst its kindred virtues. Where it is necessary to combine for 
mutual defence, as well as for the supply of common wants, mutual 
good-will springs from mutual difficulties and labours, the social af- 
fections unfold themselves, and extend from the men with whom 
we live, to the soil on which we tread. It will perhaps be found, 
indeed, that our affections cannot be originally called forth, but by 
objects capable, or supposed capable, of feeling our sentiments, and 
of returning them ; but when once excited they are strengthened 
by exercise — they are expanded by the powers of imagination, and 
seize more especially on those inanimate parts of creation, which 
form the theatre on which we have first felt the alternations of joy 
and sorrow, and first tasted the sweets of sympathy and regard. If 
this reasoning be just, the love of our country, although modified, 
and even extinguished in individuals by the chances and changes of 
life, may be presumed, in our general reasonings, to be strong 
among a people, in proportion to their social, and more especially 
to their domestic affections. In free governments it is found more 
active than in despotic ones, because, as the individual becomes of 
more consequence in the community, the community becomes of 
more consequence to him ; in small states it is generally more active 
than in large ones, for the same reason, and also because the inde- 
pendence of a small community being maintained with difficulty, 
and frequently endangered, sentiments of patriotism are more fre- 
quently excited. In mountainous countries it is generally found 
more active than in plains, because there the necessities of life of- 
ten require a closer union of the inhabitants ; and more especially 
because in such countries, though less populous than plains, the in- 
habitants, instead of being scattered equally over the whole, are 
usually divided into small communities on the sides of their sepa- 
rate valleys, and on the banks of their respective streams : situa- 
tions well calculated to call forth and to concentrate the social af- 
fections amidst scenery that acts most powerfully on the sight, and 
makes a lasting impression on the memory. It may also be remarked, 
that mountainous countries are often peculiarly calculated to nou- 



XX PREFATORY REMARKS. 

rish sentiments of national pride and independence, from the influ- 
ence of history on the affections of the mind. In such countries, from 
their natural strength, inferior nations have maintained their in- 
dependence against their more powerful neighbours, and valour, in 
all ages, has made its most successful efforts against oppression. 
Such countries present the fields of battle, where tide of invasion 
was rolled back, and where the ashes of those rest, who have died in 
defence of their nation ! 

The operation of the various causes we have mentioned is doubt- 
less more general and more permanent, where the scenery of a 
country, the peculiar manners of its inhabitants, and the martial 
achievements of their ancestors are embodied in national songs, 
and united to national music. By this combination, the ties that 
attach men to the land of their birth are multiplied and strength- 
ened ; and the images of infancy strongly associating with the gen- 
erous affections, resist the influence of time, and of new impres- 
sions ; they often survive in countries far distant, and amidst far 
different scenes, to the latest periods of life, to soothe the heart 
with the pleasures of memory, when those of hppe die away. 

If this reasoning be just, it will explain to us why, among the 
natives of Scotland, even of cultivated minds, we so generally find 
a partial attachment to the land of their birth, and why this is so 
strongly discoverable in the writings of Burns, who joined to the 
higher powers of the understanding the most ardent affections. 
Let no men of reflection think it a superfluous labour to trace the 
rise and progress of a character like his. Born in the condition of 
a peasant, he rose by the force of his mind into distinction and in- 
fluence, and in his works has exhibited what are rarely found, the 
charms of original genius. With a deep insight into the human 
heart, his poetry exhibits high powers of imagination — it displays, 
and as it were embalms, the peculiar manners of his country ; and 
it may be considered as a monument, not to his own name only, 
but to the expiring genius of an ancient and once independent na- 
tion. In relating the incidents of his life, candour will prevent us 
from dwelling invidiously on those faults and failings which justice 
forbids us to conceal; we will tread lightly over his yet warm 
ashes, and respect the laurels that shelter his untimely grave. 



LIFE 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS 



Robert Burns was, as is well known, the son of a farmer in Ayr- 
shire, and afterwards himself a farmer there ; but, having been 
unsuccessful, he was about to emigrate to Jamaica. He had pre- 
viously, however, attracted some notice by his poetical talents in 
the vicinity where he lived ; and having published a small volume 
of his poems at Kilmarnock, this drew upon him more general 
attention. In consequence of the encouragement he received, he 
repaired to Edinburgh, and there published, by subscription, an 
improved and enlarged edition of his poems, which met with extra- 
ordinary success. By the profits arising from the sale of this edi- 
tion, he was enabled to enter on a farm in Dumfries-shire; and 
having married a person to whom he had been long attached, he 
retired to devote the remainder of his life to agriculture. He was 
again, however, unsuccessful; and, abandoning his farm, he removed 
again into the town of Dumfries, where he filled an inferior ofiice 
in the excise, and where he terminated his life in July, 1796, in his 
thirty- eighth year. 

The strength and originality of his genius procured him the 
notice of many persons distinguished in the republic of letters, and, 
among others, that of Dr. Moore, well known for his Views of So* 
ciety and Manners on the Continent of Europe, for his Zeluco, and 
various other works. To this gentleman our poet addressed a letter, 
after his first visit to Edinburgh, giving a history of his life, up to 
the period of his writing. In a composition never intended to see 
the light, elegance or perfect correctness of composition will not be 
expected. These, however, will be compensated by the opportunity 
of seeing our poet, as he gives the incidents of his life, unfold the 
peculiarities of his character with all the careless vigour and open 
sincerity of his mind. 

" Sir, Mauchhne, 2d August, 1787. 

" For some months past I have been rambling over the country ; 
but I am now confined with some lingering complaints, originating, 
as I take it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits a little in this 
miserable fog of ennui, I have taken a whim to give you a history 
of myself. My name has made some little noise in this country ; 
you have done me the honour to interest yourself very warmly in 
my behalf ; and I think a faithful account of what character of a 



Ti 



LIFE OF 



man I am, and how I came by that character, may perhaps amuse 
you in an idle moment, I will give you an honest narrative ; though 
I know it will be often at my own expense ; — for I assure you, sir, 
I have, like Solomon, whose character, except in the trifling affair 
of wisdom, I sometimes think I resemble, — 1 have, I say, like him, 
turned my eyes to behold madness and folly, and like him, too, fre- 
quently shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship. * * * 
After you have perused these pages, should you think them trifling 
and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that the poor author 
wrote them under some twitching qualm3 of conscience, arising 
from a suspicion that he was doing what he ought not to do ; a 
predicament he has more than once been in before. 

" I have not the most distant pretensions to assume that charac- 
ter which the pye-coated guardians of escutcheons call a Gentleman. 
When at Edinburgh last winter, I got acquainted in the Herald's 
Oflice ; and, looking through that granary of honours, I found there 
almost every name in the kingdom ; but for me, 

" My ancient but ignoble blood 

Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood." 

Gules, purpure, argent, &c, quite disowned me. 

" My father was of the north of Scotland, the son of a farmer, 
and was thrown by early misfortunes on the world at large ; where 
after many years wanderings and sojournings, he picked up a pretty 
large quantity of observation and experience, to which I am in- 
debted for most of my little pretensions to wisdom. — I have met 
with few who understood men, their manners, and their ways, equal 
to him ; but stubborn, ungainly integrity, and headlong, ungovern- 
able irascibility, are disqualifying circumstances; consequently I 
was born a very poor man's son. For the lirst six or seven years of 
my life, my father was a gardener to a worthy gentleman of small 
estate in the neighbourhood of Ayr. Had he continued in that 
station, I must have marched off to be one of the little underlings 
about a farm-house ; but it was his dearest wish and prayer to have 
it in his power to keep his children under his own eye till they 
could discern between good and evil ; so, with the assistance of his 
generous master, my father ventured on a small farm on his estate. 
At those years 1 was by no means a favourite with any body. I 
was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy 
something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot piety. I 
say idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though it cost the 
schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar ; 
and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in 
substantives, verbs, and particles. In my infant and boyish days, 
too, I owed much to an old woman who resided in the family, re- 
markable for her ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, 
I suppose, the largest collection in the country of tales and songs 
concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spun- 
kies, kelpies, elf- candles, deadlights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, 
giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery. This cul- 
tivated the latent seeds of poetry ; but had so strong an effect on 
my imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I 
sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious places ; and though 
nobody can be more sceptical than I am in such matters; yet it often 



KOBERT BURNS. 42 

takes an effort of philosophy to shake off these idel terrors. The 
earliest composition that I recollect taking pleasure in, was The 
Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's, beginning, How are thy 
servants blest, Lord / I particularly remember one half stanza 
which was music to my boyish ears — 

" For though on dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave — " 

I met with these pieces in Mason's English Collection, one of my 
school books. The two first books I ever read in private, and which 
gave me more pleasure than any two books I ever read since, were, 
The Life of Hannibal, and The History of Sir William Wallace. 
Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in 
raptures up and down after the recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and 
wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; while the story of Wallace 
poured a Scottish prejudice into my veins, which will boil along 
there till the flood-gates of life shut in eternal rest. 

"Polemical divinity about this time was putting the country 
half mad ; and I, ambitious of shining in conversation parties on 
Sundays, between sermons, at funerals, &c, used, a few years after- 
wards, to puzzle Calvinism with so much heat and indiscretion, that 
I raised a hue and and cry of heresy against me, which has not 
ceased to this hour. 

" My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage to me. My social 
disposition, when not checked by some modifications of spiritual 
pride, was, like our catechism-definition of infinitude, without 
bounds m limits. I formed several connections with other younkers 
who poHessed superior advantages, the youngling actors, who were 
busy in the rehearsal of parts in which they were shortly to appear 
on the stage of life, where, alas ! I was destined to drudge behind 
the scenes. It is not commonly at this green age that our young 
gentry have a just sense of the immense distance between them and 
their ragged play-fellows. It takes a few dashes into the world, to 
give the young great man that proper, decent, unnoticing disregard 
for the poor insignificant stupid devils, the mechanics and peasantry 
around him, who were perhaps born in the same village. My 
young superiors never insulted the clouterly appearance of my 
plough-boy carcase, the two extremes of which were often exposed 
to all the inclemencies of the seasons. They would give me stray 
volumes of books ; among them, even then, I could pick up some 
observations ; and one, whose heart I am sure not even the Munny 
Begum scenes have tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting 
with these my young friends and benefactors, as they occasionally 
went off for the East or West Indies, was often to me a sore afflic- 
tion : but I was soon called to more serious evils. My father's 
generous master died ; the farm proved a ruinous bargain ; and, to 
clench the misfortune, we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat for 
the picture I have drawn of one in my Tale of Twa Dogs. My father 
was advanced in life when he married ; I was the eldest of seven 
children : and he, worn out by early hardships, was unfit for 
labour. My father's spirit was soon irritated, but not easily broken. 
There was a freedom in his lease in two years more ; and to weather 
these two years, we retrenched our expenses. We lived very poorly ; 
I was a dextrous ploughman, for my age ; and the next eldest to 



24 LIFE OF 

me was a brother (Gilbert) who could drive the plough very well, 
and help me to thrash the corn. A novel writer might perhaps 
have viewed these scenes with some satisfaction ; but so did not I; 
my indignation yet boils at the recollection of the s — =-1 factor's 
insolent threatening letters which used to set us all in tears. 

" This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the un- 
ceasing moil of a galley-slave, brought me to my sixteenth year ; a 
little before which period I first committed the sin of Rhyme. You 
know our country custom of coupling a man and woman together 
as partners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn my 
partner was a bewitching creature a year younger than myself. 
My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing her justice in 
that language ; but you know the Scottish idoim — she was a bonnie, 
sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she altogether, unwittingly to herself, 
initiated me in that delicious passion, which, in spite of acid disap- 
pointment, gin-horse prudence, and book- worm philosophy, I hold 
to be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here below ! 
How she caught the contagion, I cannot tell : you medical people 
talk much of infection from breathing the same air, the touch. &c. ; 
but I never expressly said I loved her. Indeed, I did not know 
myself why I liked to loiter behind with her, when returning in the 
evening from our labours; why the tones of her voice made my 
heart-strings thrill like an iEolian harp ; and particularly why my 
pulse beat such a furious ratan when I looked and fingered over her 
little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among 
her other love-inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly ; and j|was her 
favourite reel, to which I attempted giving an embodied vehicle in 
rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as to imagine that I could 
make verses like printed ones, composed by men who had Greek 
and Latin ; but my girl sung a song, which was said to be composed 
by a small country laird's son, on one of his father's maid3, with 
whom he was in love ! and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme 
as well a3 he ; for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast 
peats, his father living in the moor-lands, he had no more scholar- 
craft than myself. 

" Thus with me began love and poetry, which at times have been 
my only, and till within the last twelve months, have been my 
highest enjoyment. My father struggled on till he reached the 
freedom in his lease, when he entered on a larger farm, about ten 
miles farther in the country. The nature of the bargain he 
made was such as to throw a little ready money into his hands at 
the commencement of his lease, otherwise the affair would have 
been impracticable. For four years we lived comfortably here; 
but a difference commencing between him and his landlord, as to 
terms, after three years tossing and whirling in the vortex of liti- 
gation, my father was just saved from the horrors of a jail by con- 
sumption, which, after two years' promises, kindly stepped in, and 
carried him away, to where the wicked cease from troubling, and the 
weary are at rest. 

" It is during the time that we lived on this farm, that my little 
story is most eventful. I was, at the beginning of this period per- 
haps the most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish — no solitaire 
was less acquainted with the ways of the worid* What I kaew of 



EGBERT BURNS. 25 

ancient story was gathered from Salmon's and Outline's geographi- 
cal grammars ; and the ideas I had formed of modern manners,^ of 
literature, and criticism, I got from the Spectator. These, "with 
Pope's Works, some plays of Shakspeare, Tull and Dickson on Agri* 
culture, the Pantheon, Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding, 
Stackhouse's History of the Bible, Justice^ British Gardener's Direc* 
tory, Bayle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's Works, Taylor's Scripture 
Doctrine of Original Sin, a Select Collection of English Songs, and 
Hervey's Meditations, had formed the whole of my reading. OPhe 
collection of songs was my vade onecum. I pored over them driving 
my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse by verse, care- 
fully noting the true tender, or sublime, from affectation and fus- 
tian. I am convinced I owe to this practice much of my critic 
craft, such as it is. 

" In my seventeenth year, to give my manners a brush, I went to 
a country dancing-school. My father had an unaccountable anti- 
pathy against these meetings ; and my going was, what to this mo- 
ment I repent, in opposition to his wishes. My father, as I said 
before, was subject to strong passions ; from that instance of diso- 
bedience in me, he took a sort of dislike to me, which I believe 
was one cause of the dissipation which marked my succeeding 
years. I say dissipation, in comparison with the strictness, and 
sobriety, and regularity of Presbyterian country life : for though 
the Will o' Wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were almost the sole 
lights of my path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue kept me for 
severakyears after within the line of innocence. The great misfor- 
tune of my life was to want an aim. I had early felt some stirrings 
of ambition, but they were the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops 
round the walls of his cave. I saw my father's situation entailed 
on me perpetual labour. The only two openings by which I could 
enter the temple of Fortune, was the gate of niggardly economy, or 
the path of little chicaning bargain-making. The first is so con- 
tracted an aperture, I never could squeeze myself into it ; — the last 
I always hated— there was contamination in the very entrance ! — 
Thus abandoned of aim or view in life, with a strong appetite for 
sociability, as well from active hilarity, as from a pride of observa- 
tion and remark; a constitutional melancholy or hypochondriasm 
that made me fly solitude ; add to these incentives to social life, my 
reputation for bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, and 
a strength of thought, something like the rudiments of good sense ; 
and it will not seem surprising that I was generally a welcome 
guest where I visited, or any great wonder that, always where two 
or three met together, there was I among them. But far beyond 
all other impulses of my heart, was un penchant a Vadorable moitie du 
genre humain. My heart was completely tinder, and was eternally 
lighted up by some goddess or other ; and as in every other warfare 
in this world my fortune was Various, sometimes I was received 
with favour, and sometimes I was mortified with a repulse. At the 
plough, scythe, or reap hook, I feared no competitor, and thus I set 
absolute want at defiance ; and as I never cared further for my la- 
bours than while I was in actual exercise, I spent the evenings 
in the way after my own heart. A country lad seldom carries on a 

3 



26 UFE OV 

love adventure without an assisting confidant. I possessed a curi- 
osity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity, that recommended me as a pro- 
per second on these occasions ; and I dare say, I felt as much plea- 
sure in being in the secret of half the loves of the parish of 
Tarbolton, as ever did statesmen in knowing the intrigues of half 
the courts in Europe. The very goose-feather in my hand seems to 
know instinctively the well-worn path of my imagination, the fa- 
vourite theme of my song ; and it is with difficulty restrained from 
giving you a couple of paragraphs on the love adventures of my 
compeers, the humble inmates of the farm- house and cottage ; but 
the grave sons of science, ambition, or avarice, baptize these things 
by the name of follies. To the sons and daughters of labour and 
poverty, they are matters of the most serious nature ; to them, the 
ardent hope, the stolen interview, the tender farewell, are the 
greatest and most delicious parts of my enjoyments. 

u Another circumstance in my life which made some alteration 
in my mind and manners, was, that I spent my nineteenth summer 
on a smuggling coast, a good distance from home, at a noted school, 
to learn mensuration, surveying, dialling, &c, in which I made a 
pretty great progress. But I made a greater progress in the know- 
ledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at the time very suc- 
cessful, and it sometimes happened to me to fall in with those 
who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring dissipa- 
tion were till this time new to me ; but I was no enemy to social 
life. Here, though I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix without fear 
in a drunken squabble, yet I went on with a high hand with my 
geometry, till the sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a 
carnival in my bosom, when a charming filette who lived next door 
to the school, overset my trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent 
from the sphere of my studies. I, however, struggled on with my 
sines and co-sines, for a few days more ! but stepping into the gar- 
den one charming noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met my 
angel, 

1 Like Proserpine gathering flowers, 
Herself a fairer flower.'—— 

" It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The 
remaining week I staid, I did nothing but craze the faculties of my 
soul about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the last two nights of 
my stay in the country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of 
this modest and innocent girl had kept me guiltless. 

" I returned home very considerably improved. My reading was 
enlarged with the very important addition of Thomson's and Shen- 
stone's Works ; I had seen human nature in a new phasis : and I 
engaged several of my school-fellows to keep up a literary corres- 
pondence with me. This improved me in composition. I had met 
with a collection of letters of the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and 
I pored over them most devoutly ; I kept copies of any of my own 
letters that pleased me, and a comparison between them and the 
composition of most of my correspondents flattered my vanity. I 
carried this whim so far, that though I had not three farthings' 
worth of business in the world, yet almost every post brought me 
as many letters as if I had been a broad plodding son of day-book 
and ledger. 



ROBERT BURNS. -27 

et My life flowed on much in the same course till my twenty-third 
year. Vive Vamoin, et vive la bagatelle, were my sole principles of 
action. The addition of two more authors to my library gave me 
great pleasure ; Sterne and M'Kenzie — Tristram Shandy and The 
Man of feeling — were my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a dar- 
ling walk for my mind ; but it was only indulged in according to 
the humour of the hour. I had usually half a dozen or more pieces 
on hand ; I took up one or other, as it suited the momentary tone 
of the mind, and dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. My 
passions, when once lighted up, raged like so many devils, till they 
got vent in rhyme ; and then the conning over my verses, like a 
spell, soothed all into quiet ; None of the rhymes of those days 
are in print, except Winter, a Dirge, the eldest of my printed 
pieces ; The Death of Poor Mailie, John Barleycorn, and Songs, first, 
second, and third. Song second was the ebullition of that passion 
which ended the forementioned school business. 

"My twenty-third year was to me an important era. Partly 
through whim, and partly that I wished to set about doing some- 
thing in life, I joined a flax- dresser in a neighbouring town (Irvine) 

to learn his trade. This was an unlucky affair. My ; 

and, to finish the whole, as we were giving a welcome carousal to 
the new year, the shop took fire and burnt to ashes ; and I was left 
like a true poet, not worth a sixpence. 

" I was obliged to give up this scheme : the clouds of misfortune 
were gathering thick round my father's head ; and what was worst 
of all, he was visibly far gone in a consumption ; and to crown my 
distresses, a telle fille whom I adored, and who had pledged her soul 
to me in the field of matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar circum- 
stances of mortification. The finishing evil that brought up the 
rear of this infernal file, was, my constitutional melancholy being 
increased to such a degree, that for three months I was in a state 
of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches who have 
got their mittimus — Depart from me, ye accursed I 

" From this adventure, I learned something of a town life ; but 
the principal thing which gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I 
formed with a young fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless 
son of misfortune. He was the son of a simple mechanic ; but a 
great man in the neighbourhood taking him under his patronage 
gave him a genteel education, with a view of bettering his situation 
in life. The patron dying just as he was ready to launch out into 
the world, the poor little fellow in dispair went to sea; where 
after a variety of good and ill fortune, a little before I was ac- 
quainted with him, he had been set ashore by an American priva- 
teer, on the wild coast ot Connaught, stripped of every thing. I 
cannot quit this poor fellow's story, without adding, that he is at 
this time master of a large West Indiaman belonging to the 
Thames. 

" His mind was fraught with independence, magnanimity, and 
every manly virtue. I loved and admired him to a degree of en- 
thusiasm, and of course tried to imitate him. In some measure, I 
succeeded ; 1 had pride before, but he taught it to flow in proper 
channels. His knowledge of the world was vastly superior to mine, 
and I was all attention to learn. He was the only man I ever saw, 



28 LIFE OF 

who was a greater fool than myself, where woman was the presiding 
star ; but he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor, which 
hitherto I had regarded with horror. Here his friendship did me 
a mischief; and the consequence was that soon after I resumed the 
plough, I wrote the Poet's Welcome. My reading only increased, 
while in this town, by two stray volumes of Pamela and one of Fer- 
dinand Count Fathom, which gave me some idea of novels. Khyme, 
except some religious pieces that are in print, I had given up ; but 
meeting with Ferguson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew my wildly- 
sounding lyre with emulating vigour. When my father died, his 
all went among the hellhounds that growl in the kennel of justice ; 
but we made a shift to collect a little money in the family amongst 
us, with which, to keep us together, my brother and I took a 
neigh bouing farm. My brother wanted my hair brained imagina- 
tion, as well as my social and amorous madness: but in good 
sense, and every sober qualiii cation, he was far my superior. 

" I entered on this farm with a full resolution, Come, go to, 1 will 
he wise! i read farming books; I calculated crops; 1 attended 
markets ; and in short, in spite of the devil, and the world and the 
■flesh, I believe, I should, have been a wise man, but the first year 
from unfortunately buying bad seed, the second, from a late harvest, 
we lost half our crops. This overset all my wisdom, and I returned. 
like the dog to his vomit and the sow that was washed to her wallotO" 
ing in the mire, 

" I now began to be known in the neighbourhood as a maker of 
rhymes. The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light, was a 
burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between two reverend Calvin- 
ists, both of them dramatis persona in my Holy Fair. I had a no- 
tion myself, that the piece had some merit : but to prevent the 
worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend who was very fond of such 
things, and told him that I could not guess who was the author of 
it, but that 1 thought it pretty clever. With a certain description 
of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar of applause. 
Holy Willie's Prayer next made its appearance, and alarmed the 
kirk session so much, that they held several meetings to look over 
their spiritual artillery, if haply any of it might be pointed 
against profane rhymers. Unluckily for me, my wanderings led 
me on another ?ide, within point blank shot of their heaviest metal. 
This is the unfortunate story that gave rise to my printed poem, 
The L ment. This was a most melancholy" affair, which 1 cannot 
yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of 
the principal qualifications for a place among those who have lost 
the chart, and mistaken the reckoning of rationality.* I gave up 
my part of the farm to my brother ; in truth it wa3 only nominally 
mine ; and made what little preparation was in my power for Ja- 
maica. But, before leaving my native country for ever, 1 resolved 
to publish my poems. 1 weighed my productions as impartially as 
was in my power : I thought they had merit ; and it was a delicious 
idea that I should be called a clever fellow, even though it should 
never reach my ears — a poor negro-driver, — or perhaps a victim of 
that inhospitable clime, and gone to the world of spirits 1 I can 
truly say, that po.uvre inconnu as 1 then was, 1 had pretty nearly as 
* An explanation cf this will be found hereafter. 



ROBERT BURNS. 29 

high an idea of myself and of my works as I have at this moment 
when the public has decided in their favour. It ever was my 
opinion, that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and re- 
ligious point of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are 
owing to their ignorance of themselves.— To know myself, had been 
all along my constant study. I weighed myself alone ; I balanced 
myself with others : I watched every means of information, to see 
how much ground I occupied as a man and as a poet : I studied as- 
siduously nature's design in my formation — where the lights and 
shades in my character were intended. 1 was pretty confident 
my poems would meet with some applause : but, at the worst, the 
roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the 
novelty of West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw off 
six hundred copies, of which I had got subscriptions for about three 
hundred and fifty. — My vanity was highly gratified by the recep- 
tion I had met with from the public ; and besides I pocketed, all 
expenses deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This sum came very 
seasonably, as I was thinking of indenting myself, for want of money 
to proeure my passage. As soon as I was master of nine guineas, 
the price of wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage passage in 
the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde ; for 
" Hunrgy ruin had me in the wind," 

" I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under 
all the terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled 
the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last 
farewell of my few friends ; my chest was on the road to Green- 
ock; I had composed the la3t song I should ever measure in Oala- 
donia, The gloomy night is gathering fast ; when a letter from Dr. 
Blacklock, to a friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by 
opening new prospects to my poetic ambition. The Doctor belonged 
to a set of critics, for whose applause I had not dared to hope. His 
opinion that I would meet with encouragement in Edinburgh for 
a second edition, fired me so much, that away I posted for that 
city, without a single acquaintance, or a single letter of introduc- 
tion. The baneful star, that had so long shed its blasting influence 
in my zenith, for once mide a revolution to the nadir; and a kind 
Providence placed me under the patronage of one of the noblest of 
men, the Earl of Glencairn. Oublie moi. Grand Dieu, si jamais je 
Poublie t 

" I need relate no further. At Edinburgh I was in a new world ; 
I mingled among many classes of men, but all of them new to me, 
and I was all attention to catch the characters and the manners 
living as they rise. Whether I have profited time will shew. 



At the period of our poet's death, his brother Gilbert Burns, wa 
ignorant tha't he had himself written the foregoing narrative of hi 
life while in Ayrshire ; and having been applied to by Mrs. Dun 
lop for some memoirs of his brother, he complied with her reques 



30 LIFE OF 

in a letter, from which, the following narrative is chiefly extracted* 
When Gilbert Burns afterwards saw the letter of our poet to Dr. 
Moore, he made some annotations upon it, which shall be noticed 
as we proceed. 

Robert Burns was born on the 29th day of January, 1759, ina small 
house about two miles from the town of Ayr, and within a few 
hundred yards of Alio way Church, which his poem of Tarn o' Shan- 
ter has rendered immortal. The name which the poet and his bro- 
ther modernized into Burns, was originally Burnes or Burness. 
Their father, William Burnes, was the son of a farmer in Kincar- 
dineshire, and had received the education common in Scotland to 
persons in his condition of life : he could read and write, and had 
some knowledge of arithmetic. His family having fallen into re- 
duced circumstances, he was compelled to leave his home in his 
nineteenth year, and turned his steps towards the south in quest of 
a livelihood. The same necessity attended his eider brother Robert. 
" I have often heard my father," says Gilbert Burns, in his letter 
to Mrs. Dunlop, " describe the anguish of mind he felt when they 
parted on the top of the hill on the confines of their native place, 
each going off his several way in search of new adventures, and 
scarcely knowing whither he went. My father undertook to act as 
gardener, and shaped his course to Edinburgh, where he wrought 
hard when he could get work, passing through a variety of diffi- 
culties. Still, however, he endeavoured to spare something for the 
support of his aged parent; and I recollect hearing him mention 
Ms having sent a bank-note for this purpose when money of that 
kind was so scarce in Kincardineshire, that they scarcely knew how 
to employ it when it arrived." From Edinburgh William Burnes 
past westward into the county of Ayr, where he engaged himself as 
gardener to the laird of Fairley, with whom he lived two years ; 
then changing his service for that of Crawford of Doonside. At 
length, being desirous of settling in life, he took a perpetual lease 
of seven acres of land from Dr. Campbell, physician in Ayr, with 
the view of commencing nurseryman and public gardener; and hav- 
ing built a house upon it with his own hands, married in Decem- 
ber, 1757, Agnes Brown, the mother of our poet, who still sur- 
vives. The first fruit of this marriage was Robert, the subject of 
these memoirs, born on the 29th of January, 1759, as has already been 
mentioned. Before William Burnes had made much progress in 
preparing his nursery, he was withdrawn from that undertaking by 
Mr. Fergusson, who purchased the estate of Doonside, in the imme- 
diate neighbourhood, and engaged him as his gardener and over- 
seer ; and this was his situation when our poet was born. Though 
in the service of Mr. Ferguson, lie lived in his own house, his 
wife managing her family and little dairy, which consisted some- 
times of two, sometimes of three milch cows ; and this state of un- 
ambitious content continued till the year 1766. His son Eobert 
was sent by him, in his sixth year, to a school at Alloway Miln, 
about a mile distant, taught by a person of the name of Campbell ; 
but this teacher being in a few months appointed master of the 
workhouse at Ayr, William Burnes, in conjunction with some 
other heads of families, engaged John Murdock in his stead. The 
education of our poet, and of his brother Gilbert, was in common; 



BOBEBT BURNS. 31 

and of their proficiency under Mr. Murdoch we have the following 
account : " With him we learnt to read English tolerably well, and 
to write a little. He taught us too, the English grammar. I was 
too young to profit much from his lessons in grammar ; but Robert 
made some proficiency in it — a circumstance of considerable weight 
in the upholding of his genius and character ; as he soon became 
remarkable for the fluency and correctness of his expression, and 
read the few books that came in his way with much pleasure and 
improvement; for even then he was a reader, when he could get a 
book. Murdoch, whose library at that time had no great variety 
in it, lent him The Life of Hannibal, which was the first book he 
read (the school-books excepted) and almost the only one he had 
the opportunity of reading while he was at school ; The Life of 
Wallace, which he classes with it in one of his letters to you, he 
did not see for some years afterwards, when he borrowed it from a 
blacksmith who shod our horses." 

It appears that William Burnes improved himself greatly in the 
service of Mr. Ferguson, by his intelligence, industry, and integ- 
rity. In consequence of this, with a view of promoting his interest, 
Mr. Fergusson leased him a farm, of which we have the following 
account : 

" The farm was upwards of seventy acres (between eighty and 
ninety, English statute measure), the rent of which was to be forty 
pounds annually for the first six years, and afterwards forty-five 
pounds. My father endeavoured to sell his leasehold property for 
the purpose of stocking this farm, but at that time was unable, 
and Mr. Ferguson lent him a hundred pounds for that purpose. 
He removed to his new situation at Whitsuntide, 1766. It 
was, I think, not above two years after this, that Murdoch, our 
tutor and friend, left this part of the country ; and there being no 
school near us, and our little services being useful on the farm, my 
father undertook to teach us arithmetic in the winter evenings, by 
candle-light ; and in this way my two elder sisters got all the 
education they received. I remember a circumstance that hap- 
pened at this time, which, though trifling in itself, is fresh in my 
memory, and may serve to illustrate the early character of my bro- 
ther. Murdoch came to spend a night with us, and to take his 
leave, when he was about to go into Carrick. He brought us a 
present and memorial of him, a small compendium of English 
Grammar, and the tragedy of Titus Andronicus; and by way of 
passing the evening, he began to read the play aloud. We were all 
attention for some time, till presently the whole party were dis- 
solved in tears. A female in the play (I have but a confused re- 
membrance of it) had her hands chopt off, and her tongue cut out, 
and then was insultingly desired to call for water to wash her 
hands. At this, in an agony of distress, we with one voice desired 
he would read no more. My father observed, that if we would not 
hear it out, it would be needless to leave the play with us. Robert 
replied, that if it was left he would burn it. My father was go- 
ing to chide him for this ungrateful return to his tutor's kindness ; 
but Murdoch interfered, declaring that he liked to see so much 
sensibility ; and he left The School for Love, and a comedy (trans-; 
lated, I think ; from the French), in its place, 55 



32 LIFE OF 

" Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, " could be more retired 
than our general manner of living at Mount Elephant; we rarely 
saw anybody but the members of our own family. There were no 
boys of our own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. Indeed 
the greatest part of the land in the vicinity was at that time possessed 
by shopkeepers, and people of that stamp, who had retired from 
business, or who kept their farm in the country, at the same time that 
they followed business in town. My father was for some time almost 
the only companion we had. He conversed familiarly on all sub- 
jects with us, as if we had been men ; and was at great pains, 
while we accompanied him in the labours of the farm, to lead the 
conversation to such subjects as might tend to increase our know- 
ledge, or confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed Salmon'* 
Geographical Grammar for us, and endevoured to make us ac- 
quainted with the situation and history of the different countries 
in the world ; while from a book society in Ayr, he procured for us 
the reading of Derhams Physico and Astro- Theology, and Rays 
Wisdom of God in the Creation, to give us some idea of astronomy and 
natural history. Eobert read all these books with an avidity and 
industry scarcely to be equalled. My father had been a subscriber to 
Staclchouse 's History of the Bible, then lately published by James 
Meuros in Kilmarnock : from this Eobert collected a competent 
knowledge of ancient history ; for no book was so voluminous as 
to slacken his industry, or so antiquated as to damp his researches. 
A brother of my mother, who had lived with us for some time, and 
had learnt some arithmetic by our winter evening's candle, went 
to a bookseller's shop in Ayr, to purchase The Ready Reckoner,, or 
Tradesman's sure Guide, and a book to teach him to write letters. 
Luckily, in place of The Complete Letter- Writer, he got by mistake, 
a small collection of letters by the most eminent writers, with a 
few sensible directions for attaining an easy epistolary style. The 
book was to Robert of the greatest importance. It inspired him 
with a strong desire to excel in letter- writing, while it furnished 
him with models by some of the first writers in our language. 

r. My brother was about thirteen or fourteen, when my father, re- 
gretting that we wrote so ill, sent us, week about, during a summer 
quarter, to the parish school of Dalrymple, which, though between 
two or three miles distant, was the nearest to us, that we might 
have an opportunity of remedying this defect. About this time a 
bookish acquaintance of my father's procured us a reading of two 
volumes of Richardson's Pamela, which was the first novel we read, 
and the only part of Richardson's works my brother was acquainted 
with till towards the period of his commencing author. Till that 
time too he remained unacquainted with Fielding, with Smollet, 
(two volumes of Ferdinand Count Fathom, and two volumes of 
Peregrine Pickle excepted), with Hume and Robertson, and almost 
all our authors of eminence of the later times. I recollect indeed 
my father borrowed a volume of English history from Mr. Hamilton 
of Bourtree-hilPs gardener. It treated of the reign of James the 
Firit, and his unfortunate son, Charles, but I do not know who was 
the author ; all that I remember of it is something of Charles's 
conversation with his children. About this time Murdoch, our 
former teacher, after haying been in different places in the country. 



ROBERT BURNS. 38 

and having taught a school some time in Dumfries, came to be the 
established teacher of the English language in Ayr, a circumstance 
of considerable consequence to us. The remembrance of my father's 
former friendship, and his attachment to my brother, made him do 
every thing in his power for our improvement. He sent us Pope's 
works, and some other poetry, the first that we had an opportunity 
of reading excepting what is contained in The English Collection, 
and in the volume of The Edinburgh Magazine for 1772 ; excepting 
also those excellent new songs that are hawked about the country in 
baskets, or exposed on stalls in the streets. 

" The summer after we had been at Dalrymple school, my father 
sent Robert to Ayr, to revise his English grammar, with his former 
teacher. He had been there only one week, when he was obliged 
to return to assist at the harvest. When the harvest was over, he 
went back to school, where he remained two weeks ; and this com- 
pletes the account of his school education, excepting one summer 
quarter some time afterwards, that he attended the parish school of 
Kirk Oswald (where he lived with a brother of my mother's) to 
learn surveying. 

" During the two last weeks that he was with Murdoch, he him- 
self was engaged in learning French, and he communicated the in- 
structions he received to my brother, who, when he returned, 
brought with him a French dictionary and grammar, and the Ad- 
ventures of Telemachus in the original. In a little while, by the as- 
stance ot these books, he acquired such a knowledge of the lan- 
guage, as to read and understand any French author in prose. This 
was considered as a sort of prodigy, and, through the medium of 
Murdoch, procured him the acquaintance of several lads in Ayr, who 
were at time gabbling French, and the notice of some families, par- 
ticularly that of Dr. Malcolm, where a knowledge of French was a 
recommendation. 

" Observing the facility with which he had acquired the French 
language, Mr. Robinson, the established writing-master in. Ayr, and 
Mr. Murdoch's particular friend, having himself acquired a con- 
siderable knowledge of the Latin language by his own industry, 
without ever having learned it at school, advised Robert to make 
the same attempt, promising him every assistance in his power. 
Agreeably to this advice, he purchased The Rudiments of the Latin 
Tongue, but finding this study dry and uninteresting, it was quickly 
laid aside. He frequently returned to his Rudiments on any little 
chagrin or disappointment, particularly in his love aifairs ; but the 
Latin seldom predominated more than a day or two at a time, or a 
week at most. Observing himself the ridicule that would attach 
to this sort of conduct if it were known, he made two or three 
humorous stanzas on the subject, which I cannot now recollect, but 
they all ended, 

* So I'll to my Latin again.' 

" Thus you see Mr. Murdoch was a principal means of my bro- 
ther's improvement. Worthy man ! though foreign to my present 
purpose, I cannot take leave of him without tracing his future his- 
tory, He continued for some years a respected and useful teacher 

£ 5 



34 LIFE OF 

at Ayr, till one evening that he had been overtaken in liquor, he 
happened to speak somewhat disrespectfully of Dr. Dalrymple, the 
parish minister, who had not paid him that attention to which he 
thought himself entitled. In Ayr he might as well have spoken 
blasphemy. He found it proper to give up his appointment. He 
went to London, where he still lives, a private teacher of French. 
He has been a considerable time married, and keeps a shop of 
stationary wares. 

" The father of Dr. Paterson, now physician at Ayr, was, I be- 
lieve, a native of Aberdeenshire, and was one of the established 
teachers in Ayr when my father settled in the neighbourhood. He 
eagerly recognised my father as a fellow native of the north of Scot- 
land, and a certain degree of intimacy subsisted between them dur- 
ing Mr. Paterson's life. After his death, his widow, who is a very 
geenteel woman, and of great worth, delighted in doing what she 
thought her husband would have done, and assiduously kept up her 
attentions to all his acquaintance. She kept alive the intimacy 
with our family, by frequently inviting my father and mother to 
her house on Sundays, when she met them at church. 

u When she came to know my brother's passion for books, she 
kindly offered us the use of her husband's library, and from her we 
got the Spectator, Popes Translation of Homer, and several other 
books that were of use to us. Mount Oiiphant, the farm my father 
possessed in the parish of Ayr, is almost the very poorest soil I 
know of in a state of cultivation. A stronger proof of this I cannot 
give, than that, notwithstanding the extraordinary rise in the value 
of lands in Scotland, it was, after a considerable sum laid out in im- 
proving it by the proprietor, let, a few years ago, five pounds per 
annum lower than the rent paid for it by my father thirty years 
ago. My father, in consequence of this, soon came into difficulties, 
which were increased by the loss of several of his cattle by accidents 
and disease. — To the bufferings of misfortune, we could only oppose 
hard labour and the most rigid economy. We lived very sparingly. 
For several years butcher's meat was a stranger in the house, while 
all the members of the family exerted themselves to the utmost of 
their strength, and rather beyond it, in the labours of the farm. My 
brother, at the age of thirteen, assisted in threshing the crop of 
corn, and at fifteen was the principal labourer on the farm, for we 
had no hired servant, male or female. The anguish of mind we 
felt at our tender years, under these straits and difficulties, was very 
great. To think of our father growing old (for he was now above 
fifty,) broken down with the long continued fatigues of his life, 
with a wife and five other children, and in a decling state of cir- 
cumstances, these reflections produced in my brother's mind and 
mine sensations of the deepest distress. I doubt not but the hard 
labour and sorrow of this period of his life, was in a great measure 
the cause of that depression of spirits with which Robert was so of- 
ten afflicted through his whole life afterwards. At this time he 
was almost constantly afflicted in the evenings with a dull head- 
ache, which, at a future period of his life, was exchanged for a palpi- 
tation of the heart, and a threatening of fainting and suffocation in 
his bed, in the night time. 
* By a stipulation in my father's lease, he had a right to throw 



ROBERT BURNS. 35 

it up, if he thought proper, at the end of every sixth year. He at- 
tempted to fix himself in a better farm at the end of the first six 
years, but failing in that attempt, he continued where he was for 
six years more. He then took the farm of Lochlea, of 130 
acres, at the rent of twenty shillings an acre, in the parish of Tar- 

bolton, of Mr. , then a merchant in Ayr, and now 

(1797) a merchant in Liverpool. He removed to this farm at Whit- 
sunday, 1777, and possessed it only seven years. No writing had 
ever been made out of the conditions of the lease ; a misunderstand- 
ing took place respecting them; the subjects in dispute were sub- 
mitted to arbitration, and the decision involved my father's affairs 
in ruin. He lived to know of this decision, but not to see any ex- 
ecution in consequence of it. He died on the 13th of February, 
1784. 

" The seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish (extending from 
the seventeenth to the twenty fourth of my brother's age), were 
not marked by much literary improvement ; but during this time 
the foundation was laid of certain habits in my brother's character, 
which afterwards became but too prominent, and which malice and 
envy have taken delight to enlarge on. Though, when young, he 
was bashful and awkward in his intercourse with women, yet when 
he approached manhood, his attachment to their society became 
very strong, and he was constantly the victim of some fair enslaver. 
The symptoms of his passion were often such as nearly to equal 
those of the celebrated Sappho. I never indeed knew that he 
fainted, sunk, and died away ; but the agitations of his mind and 
body exceeded any thing of the kind I ever knew in real life. He 
had always a particular jealousy of people who were richer than 
himself, or who had more consequence in life. His love, therefore, 
rarely settled on persons of this description. When he selected any 
one, out of the sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom he should, 
pay his particular attention, she was instantly invested with a suf 
ficient stock of charms, out of the plentiful stores of his own imagi" 
nation : and there was often a great dissimilitude between his fair 
CBptivator, as she appeared to -others, and as she seemed when in- 
vested with the attributes he gave her. One generally reigned para- 
mount in his affections : but as Yorick's affections flowed out to- 
ward Madame de L at the remise door, while the eternal vows of 

Eliza were upon him, so Robert was frequently encountering other at- 
tractions, which formed so many under plots in the drama of his 
love. As these connexions were governed by the strictest rules of 
virtue and modesty (from which he never deviated till he reached 
his 23d year), he became anxious to be in a situation to marry. This 
was not likely to be soon the case while he remained a farmer, as 
the stocking of a farm required a sum of money he had no proba- 
bility of being master of for a great while. He began, therefore, 
to think of trying some other line of life. He and I had for several 
years taken land of my father for the purpose of raising flax on our 
own account. In the course of selling it, Robert began to thank of 
turning flax-dresser, both as being suitable to his grand view of set- 
tling in life, and as subservient to the flax raising. He accordingly 
wrought at the business of a flax-dresser in Irvine for six months, 
but abandoned it at that period, as neither agreeing with his health 



36 LIFE OF 

nor inclination. In Irvine he had contracted some acquaintance of 
a freer manner of thinking and living than he had been used to, 
whose society prepared him for overleaping the bounds of rigid vir- 
tue which had hitherto restrained him. Towards the end of the 
period under review (in his 24th year), and soon after his father's 
death, he was furnished with the subject of his epistle to John Ran- 
kin. During this period also he became a freemason, which was his 
first introduction to the life of a boon companion. Yet, notwith- 
standing these circumstances, and the praise he has bestowed on 
Scotch drink (which seems to have misled his historians), I do not 
recollect, during these seven years, nor till towards the end of his 
commencing author (when his growing celebrity occasioned his be- 
ing often in company), to have ever seen him intoxicated; nor was 
he at all given to drinking. A stronger proof of the general so- 
briety of his conduct need not be required than what I am about 
to give. During the whole of the time we lived in the farm of Loch- 
lea with my father, he allowed my brother and me such wages for 
our labour as he gave to other labourers, as a part of which, every 
article of our clothing manufactured in the family was regularly ac- 
counted for. When my father's affairs drew near a crisis, Robert 
and I took the farm of Mossgiel, consisting of 118 acres, at the rent 
of £90 per annum (the farm on which I live at present) from Mr. 
Gavin Hamilton, as an asylum for the family in case of the worst. 
It was stocked by the property and individual savings of the whole 
family, and was a joint concern among us. Every member of the 
family was allowed ordinary wages for the labour he performed on 
the farm. My brother's allowance and mine was seven pounds per 
annum each. And during the whole time this family concern 
lasted, which was four years, as well as during the preceding period 
at Lochlea, his expenses never in any one year exceeded his slender 
income. As I was intrusted with the keeping of the family accounts, 
it is not possible that there can be any fallacy in this statement in 
my brother's favour. His temperance and frugality were every 
thing that could be wished. 

* The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and mostly on a cold wet 
bottom. The first four years that we were on the farm were very 
frosty, and the spring was very late. Our crops in consequence 
were very unprofitable; and, notwithstanding our utmost diligence 
and economy, we found ourselves obliged to give up our bargain, 
with the loss of a considerable part of our original stock. It was 
during these four years that Robert formed his connexion with Jean 
Armour, afterwards Mrs. Burns. The connexion could no longer be • 
concealed, about the time we came to a final determination to quit 
the farm. Robert durst not engage with a family in his poor un- 
settled state, but was anxious to shield his partner by every means 
in his power from the consequences of their imprudence. It was 
agreed therefore between them, that they should make a legal 
acknowledgment of an irregular and private marriage; that he 
should gro to Jamaica, to push his fortune ; and that she should re- 
main with her father till it might please Providence to put the 
means of supporting a family in his power. 

" Mrs. Burns was a great favourite of her father's. The intima- 
tion of a private marriage was the first suggestion he received of 



ROBERT BURNS. 37 

her real situation. He was in the greatest distress, and fainted 
away. The marriage did not appear to him to make the matter any 
better. A husband in Jamaica appeared to him and his wife little 
better than none, and an effectual bar to any other prospects of a 
settlement in life that their daughter might have. They therefore 
expressed a wish to her, that the written papers which respected 
the marriage should be cancelled, and thus the marriage rendered 
void. In her melancholy state she felt the deepest remorse at hav- 
ing brought such heavy affliction on parents that loved her so ten- 
derly, and submitted to their entreaties. Their wish was mentioned 
to Kobert. He felt the deepest anguish of mind. He offered to 
stay at home and provide for his wife and family in the best man- 
ner that his daily labours could provide for them ; that being the 
only means in his power. Even this offer they did not approve of ; 
for humble as Miss Armour's station was, and great though her im- 
prudence had been, she still, in the eyes of her partial parents, 
might look to a better connexion than that with my friendless and 
unhappy brother, at that time without house or biding-place. 
Kobert at length consented to their wishes ; but his feelings on this 
occasion were of the most distracting nature : and the impression of 
sorrow was not effaced, till by a regular marriage they were indis- 
solubly united. In the state of mind which this separation produced, 
he wished to leave the country as soon as possible, and agreed with 
Dr. Douglas to go out to Jamaica as an assistant overseer, or, as I 
believe it is called, a book-keeper, on his estate. As he had not 
sufficient money to pay his passage, and the vessel in which Dr. 
Douglas was to procure a passage for him was not expected to sail 
for some time, Mr. Hamilton advised him to publish his poems in 
the meantime by subscription, as a likely way of getting a little 
money to provide him more liberally in necessaries for Jamaica. 
Agreeably to this advice, subscription bills were printed immedi- 
ately, and the printing was commenced at Kilmarnock, his prepar- 
ations going on at the same time for his voyage. The reception, 
however, which his poems met with in the world, and the friends 
they procured him, made him change his resolution of going to 
Jamaica, and he was advised to go to Edinburgh to publish a second 
edition. On his return, in happier circumstances, he renewed bis 
connexion with Mrs. Burns, and rendered it permanent by a union 
for life. 

" Thus, Madam, have I endeavoured to give you a simple narra- 
tive of the leading circumstances in my brother's early life. The 
remaining part he spent in Edinburgh or Dumfries- shire, and its 
incidents are as well known to you as to me. His genius having 
procured him your patronage and friendship, this gave rise to the 
correspondence between you, in which, I believe, his sentiments 
were delivered with the most respectful, but most unreserved con- 
fidence, and which only terminated with the last days of his life." 

This narrative of Gilbert Burns may serve as a commentary on 
the preceding sketch of our poet's life by himself. It will be seen 
that the distraction of mind which he mentions (p. xxviii,) arose 
from the distress and sorrow in which he had involved his future 



38 LIFE OF 

wife. The whole circumstances attending this connexion are cer- 
tainly of a very singular nature. 

The reader will perceive, from the foregoing narrative how much 
the children of William Burnes were indebted to their father, who 
was certainly a man of uncommon talents ; though it does not ap- 
pear that he possessed any portion of that vivid imagination for 
which the subject of these memoirs was distinguished. In page 
xxv. it is observed by our poet, that his father had an unaccountable 
antipathy to dancing-schools, and that his attending one of these 
brought on him his displeasure, and even dislike. On this observa- 
tion Gilbert has made the following remark, which seems entitled 
to implicit credit : — " I wonder how Eobert could attribute to our 
father that lasting resentment of his going to a dancing-school 
against his will, of which he was incapable. I believe the truth 
was, that he, about this time, began to see the dangerous impetu- 
osity of my brother's passions, as well as his not being amenable to 
counsel, which often irritated my father ; and which he would na- 
turally think a dancing-school was not likely to correct. But he 
was proud of Robert's genius, which he bestowed more expense in 
cultivating than on the rest of the family, in the instances of send- 
ing him to Ayr and Kirk-Oswald schools ; and he was greatly de- 
lighted with his warmth of heart, and his conversational powers. 
He had indeed that dislike of dancing-schools which Robert men- 
tions ; but so far overcame it during Robert's first month of attend- 
ance, that he allowed all the rest of the family that were fit for it, 
to accompany him during the second month. Robert excelled in 
dancing, and was for some time distractedly fond of it." 

In the original letter to Dr. Moore, our poet described his ances- 
tors as " renting lands of the noble Keiths of Marischal, and as 
having had the honour of sharing their fate." " I do not," con- 
tinues he, " use the word honour with any reference to political 
principles ; loyal and disloyal I take to be merely relative terms, in 
that ancient and formidable court, known in this country by the 
name of Clublaw, where the right is always with the strongest. 
But those who dare welcome ruin and shake hands with infamy, for 
what they sincerely believe to be the cause of their God, or their 
king, are, as Mark Antony says in Shakspeare, of Brutus and Cas- 
sius, honourable men. I mention this circumstance, because it threw 
my father on the world at large. 

This paragraph has been omitted in printing the letter, at the 
desire of Gilbert Burn3 ; and it would have been unnecessary to 
have noticed it on the present occasion, had not several manuscript 
copies of that letter been in circulation. " I do not know," ob- 
serves Gilbert Burns, " how my brother could be misled in the ac- 
count he has given of the Jacobitism of his ancestors. — I believe the 
Earl of Marischal forfeited his title and estate in 1715, before my 
father was born ; and among a collection of parish-certificates in 
his possession, I have read one, stating that the bearer had no con- 
cern in the late wicked rebellion." On the information of one who 
knew "William Burnes soon after he arrived in the county of Ayr, 
it may be mentioned, that a report did prevail, that he had taken 
the field with the young chevalier ; a report which the certificate 
mentioned by his son was, perhaps, intended to counteract. 



ROBERT BURNS. 39 

Strangers from the North, settling in the low country of Scotland, 
were in those days liable to suspicions of having been, in the 
familiar phrase of the country, " Out in the forty-five," (1745,) 
especially when they had any stateliness or reserve about them, as 
was the case with William Burnes. It may easily be conceived, 
that our poet would cherish the belief of his father's having been 
engaged in the daring enterprise of Prince Charles Edward. The 
generous attachment, the heroic valour, and the final misfortunes 
of the adherents of the house of Stuart, touched with sympathy his 
youthful and ardent mind, and influenced his orginal political 
opinions. The father of our poet is described by one who knew 
him towards the latter end of his life, as above the common stature, 
thin, and bent with labour. His countenance was serious and ex- 
pressive, and the scanty locks on his head were grey. He was of a 
religious turn of mind, and as is usual among the Scottish peasan- 
try, a good deal conversant in speculative theology. There is in 
Gilbert's hands a little manual of religious belief, in the form of a 
dialogue between a father and his son, composed by him for the use 
of his children, in which the benevolence of his heart seems to 
have led him to soften the rigid Calvinism of the Scottish church 
into something approaching to Arminianism. He was a devout 
man, and in the practice of calling his family together to join in 
prayer. It is known that the following exquisite picture, in the 
Cotter's Saturday Night, represents William Burnes and his family 
at their evening devotions. 

The cheerful supper done, with serious face, 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace, 

The big hall- Bible, once his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And " Let us worship God J" he says with solemn air. 
They chant their artless notes in simple guise, 

They tune their hearts by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs worthy of the name ; 
Or noble Elgin beets the heavenly flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays ; 
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame, 

The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise; 
No unison have they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Air am was the friend of God on high; 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie, 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or, rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 



40 MFE OF 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
How guileless blood for guilty man was shed ; 

How he who bore in Heaven the second name, 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 

How his first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 

How he who lone in Patmos banished, 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand : 
And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced, by Heaven's com- 
mand ! 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays ; 
Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing, 

That thus they all shall meet in future days ; 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 



Then homeward all take off their several way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
The parent pair their secret homaye pay, 

And offer up to Heaven the warm request, 
That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
Would in the way his wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside ! 

Of a family so interesting as that which inhabited the cottage of 
William Burnes and particularly of the father of the family, the 
reader will perhaps be willing to listen to some farther account. 
What follows is given by one already mentioned with so much 
honour, in the narrative of Gilbert Burns, Mr. Murdoch, the pre- 
ceptor of our poet, who, in a letter to Joseph Cooper Walker, Esq. 
of Dublin, author of the Historical Memoir of the Italian Tragedy, 
lately published, thus expresses himself : — 

« Sir, 

" I was lately favoured with a letter from our worthy friend, the 
Rev. Wm. Adair, in which he requested me to communicate to you 
whatever particulars I could recollect concerning Robert Burns, the 
Ayrshire poet. My business being at present multifarious and 
harrassing, my attention is consequently so much divided, and I am 
bo little in the habit of expressing my thoughts on paper, that at 
this distance of time I can give but a very imperfect sketch of the 
early part of the life of that extraordinary genius with which alone 
I am acquainted. 

'•' William B times, the father of the poet, was born in the shire 
of Kincardine, and bred a gardener. He had been settled in Ayr- 
shire ten or twelve years before I knew him, and had been in the 
gervice of Mr. Crawford of Doonside. He was afterwards employed 



ROBERT BURNS. 41 

as a gardener and overseer by Provost Ferguson of Doonholm, in 
the parish of Alio way, which is now united with that of Ayr. In 
this parish, on the road-side, a Scotch mile and a half from the 
town of Ayr, and half a mile from the bridge of Doon, William 
Burnes took a piece of land, consisting of about seven acres, part of 
which he laid out in garden ground, and part of which he kept to 
graze a cow, &c. still continuing in the employ of Provost Ferguson, 
tlpon this little farm was erected an humble dwelling, of which 
William Burnes was the architect. It was, with the exception of 
a little straw, literally a tabernacle of clay. In this mean cottage, 
of which I myself was at times an inhabitant, I really believe, 
there dwelt a larger portion of content than in any palace in 
Europe. The Cotter's Saturday Night, will give some idea of the 
temper and manners that prevailed there. 

" In 1705, about the middle of March, Mr W. Burnes came to Ayr, 
and sent to the school where I was improving in writing under my 
good friend Mr Robinson, desiring that I would come and speak to 
him at a certain inn, and bring my writing book with me. This 
was immediately complied with. Having examined my writing, he 
was pleased with it — (you will readily allow he was not difficult), 
and told me that he had received very satisfactory information of 
Mr Tennant, the master of the English, school/concerning my im- 
provement in English and in his method of teaching. In the 
month of May following, 1 was engaged by Mr Burnes, and four 
of his neighbours to teach the little school at Alloway, which 
-was situated a few yards from the argillaceous fabric above men- 
tioned. My five employers undertook to board me by turns, 
and to make up a certain salary, at the end of the year, provided 
my quarterly payments from the different pupils did not amount to 
that sum. 

" My pupil, Robert Burns, was then between six and seven years 
of age; his preceptor about eighteen. Robert and his younger 
brother Gilbert, had been grounded a little in English before they 
•were put under my care. They both made a rapid progress in read- 
ing, and a tolerable progress in writing. In reading, dividing 
"words into syllables by rule, spelling without book, parsing sen- 
tences, &c. Robert and Gilbert were generally at the upper end of 
the class, even when ranged with boys by far their seniors. The 
books most commonly used were the Spelling Boo7c, the New Testa- 
merit, the Bible, Mason's Collection of Prose and Verse, and Fisher r s 
English Grammer. They committed to memory the hymns, and 
other poems of that collection, with uncommon facility. This fa- 
cility was partly owing to the method pursued by their father and 
me in instructing them, which was, to make them thoroughly ac- 
quainted with the meaning of every word in each sentence that 
was to be committed to memory. By the bye, this may be easier 
done, and at an earlier time, than is generally thought. As soon as 
they were capable of it, I taught them to turn verse into its natural 
prose order : sometimes to substitute synonomous expressions for 
poetical words, and to supply all the ellipses. These, you know, are 
the means of knowing that the pupil understands his author. These 
are excellent helps to the arrangement of words in sentences, as 
well as to a variety of expression, 



42 LIFE OF 

" Gilbert always appeared to me to possess a more lively imagina- 
tion, and to be more of the wit, than Kobert. I attempted to 
teach them a little church-music. Here they were left far behind 
by all the rest of the school. Robert's ear, in particular, was re- 
markably dull, and his voice untunable. It was long before I could 
get them to distinguished one tune from another. Robert's coun- 
tenance was generally grave, and expressive of a serious, contempla- 
tive, and thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face said, Mirth, with thee I 
mean to live ; and certainly, if any person who knew the two boys, 
had been asked which of them was the most likely to court the 
muses, he would surely never have guessed that Robert had a pro- 
pensity of that kind. 

" In the year 1767, Mr. Burns quitted his mud edifice, and took 
possession of a farm (Mount Oliphant) of his own improving, while 
in the service of Provost Ferguson. This farm being at a consider- 
able distance from the school, the boys could not attend regularly ; 
and some changes had taken place among the other supporters of 
the school, I left it, having continued to conduct it for nearly two 
years and a half. 

" In the year 1772, 1 was appointed (being one of five candidates 
who were examined) to teach the English school at Ayr ; and in 
1773, Robert Burns came to board and lodge with me, for the pur- 
pose of revising English grammar, &c. that he might be better 
qualified to instruct his brothers and sisters at home. He was now 
with me day and night, in school, at all meals, and in all my walks. 
At the end of one week, I told him, that as he was now pretty 
much master of the parts of speech, &c. I should like to teach him 
something of French pronunciation, that when he should meet with 
the name of a French town, ship, officer, or the like, in the news- 
papers, he might be able to pronounce it something like a French 
word. Robert was glad to hear this proposal, and immediately we 
attacked the French with great courage. 

" ]STow there was little else to be heard but the declension of 
nouns, the conjugation of verbs, &c. When walking together, and 
even at meals, I was constantly telling him the names of different 
objects, as they presented themselves, in French ; so that he was 
hourly laying in a stock of words, aud sometimes little phrases. In 
short, he took such pleasure in learning, and I in teaching, that it 
was difficult to say which of the two was most zealous in the busi- 
ness ; and about the end of the second week of our study of the 
French, we began to read a little of the Adventures of Telemachus, 
in Fenelon's own words. 

" But now the plains of Mount Oliphant began to whiten, and 
Robert was summoned to relinquish the pleasing scenes that sur- 
rounded the grotto of Calypso, and, armed with a sickle, to seek 
glory by signalizing himself in the fields of Ceres— and so he did ; 
for althou-h but about fifteen, I was told that he performed the 
work of a man. 

" Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil, and consequently 
agreeable companion, at the end of three weeks, one of which was 
spent entirely in the study of English, and the other two chiefly 
in that of French. I did not, however, lose sight of him ; but was 
a frequent visitor at his father's house, when I ha<Jmy half-holiday, 






ROBERT BURNS. 43 



and very often went accompanied with one or two persons more in- 
telligent than myself, that good William Burnes might enjoy a men- 
tal feast. — Then the labouring oar was shifted to some other hand. 
The father and the son sat down with us, when we enjoyed a con- 
versation, wherein solid reasoning, sensible remark, and moderate 
seasoning of jocularity, were so nicely blended as to render it palata- 
ble to all parties. Robert had a hundred questions to ask me about 
the French, &c. ; and the father, who had always rational informa- 
tion in view, had still some question to propose to my more learned 
friends, upon moral or natural philosophy, or some such interesting 
subject. Mrs. Burnes too was of the party as much as possible ; 

' But still the house affairs would draw her thence, 
Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 
She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear, 
Devour up their discourse' 

and particularly that of her husband. At all times, and in all 
companies, she listened to him with a more marked attention than 
to any body else. When under the necessity of being absent while 
he was speaking, she seemed to regret, as a real loss, that she had 
missed what the good-man had said. This worthy woman, Agnes 
Brown, had the mo3t thorough esteem for her husband of any 
woman I ever knew. I can by no means wonder that she always 
considered William Burnes as by far the best of the human race 
that ever I had the pleasure of being acquainted with — and many 
a worthy character I have known. I can cheerfully join with 
Robert in the last line of his epitaph (borrowed from Goldsmith). 
' And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.' 

" He was an excellent husband, if I may judge from his assiduous 
attention to the ease and comfort of his worthy partner, and from 
her affectionate behaviour to him, as well as from her unwearied 
attention to the duties of a mother. 

" He was a tender and affectionate father ; he took pleasure in 
leading his children in the path of virtue ; not in driving them, as 
some parents do, to the performance of duties to which they them- 
selves are averse. He took care to find fault but very seldom ; and 
therefore, when he did rebuke, he was listened to with a kind of 
reverential awe. A look of disapprobation was felt ; a reproof was 
severely so ; and a stripe of the taws, even on the skirt of the coat, 
gave heart-felt pain, caused a loud lamentation, and brought forth a 
flood of tears. 

" He had the art of gaining the esteem and good- will of those 
that were fellow-labourers under him. I think I never saw him 
angry but twice : the one time it was with the foreman of the band, 
for not reaping the field as he was desired ; and the other time, it 
was with a very old man, for using some smutty inuendoes and 
double entendres. Were every foul-mouthed old man to receive a 
seasonable check in this way, it would be to the advantage of the 
rising generation. As he was at no time overbearing to inferiors, 
he was equally incapable of that paltry, pitiful, passive spirit, that 
induces some people to keep booing and booing in the presence of a 
great man. He always treated superiors with becoming respect ; 
but he never gave the smallest encouragement to aristocratical arro* 



44 LIFE OF 

gance. But I must not pretend to give you a description of all the 
manly qualities, the rational and Christian virtues of the venerable 
William Burnes. Time would fail me. I shall only add, that he 
carefully practised every known duty, and avoided every thing that 
was criminal ; or, in the apostle's words, Herein did he exercise him' 
self, in living a life void of offence towards God and towards man. 

" for a world of men of such dispositions ! We should then 
have no wars. I have often wished, for the good of mankind, that 
it were as customary to honour and perpetuate the memory of 
those who excel in moral rectitude, as it is to extol what are called 
heroic actions ; then would the mausoleum of the friend of my 
youth overtop and surpass most of the monuments I see in West- 
minster Abbey. 

"Although I cannot do justice to the character of this worthy 
man, yet you will perceive, from these few particulars, what kind 
of person had the principal hand in the education of our poet. He 
spoke the English language with more propriety (both with respect 
to diction and pronunciation), than any man I ever knew with no 
greater advantages. This had a very good effect on the boys, who 
began to talk and reason like men, much sooner than their neigh- 
bours. I do not recollect any of their cotemporaries, at my little 
seminary, who afterwards made any great figure as literary charac- 
ters, except Dr. Tennant, who was chaplain to Colonel Fullarton's 
regiment, and who is now in the East Indies. He is a man of ge- 
nius and learning ; yet affable, and free from pedantry. 

" Mr. Burnes, in a short time, found that he had overrated Mount 
Oliphant, and that he could not rear his numerous family upon it. 
After being there some years, he removed to Lochlea, in the parish 
of Tarbolton, where, I believe, Eobert wrote most of his poems. 

u But here, sir, you will permit me to pause. I can tell you but 
little more relative to the poet. I shall, however, in my next, send 
you a copy of one of his letters to me, about the year 1783. I re- 
ceived one since, but it is mislaid. Please remember me, in the 
best manner, to my worthy friend, Mr. Adair, when you see him or 
write to him. 

" Hart- street, Bloomsbury-square, London, Feb. 22, 1799." 

As the narrative of Gilbert Burns was written at a time when he 
was ignorant of the existence of the preceding narrative of his 
brother ; so this letter of Mr. Murdoch was written without his 
having any knowledge that either of his pupils had been employed 
on the same subject. The three relations served, therefore, not 
merely to illustrate, but to authenticate each other. Though the 
information they convey might have been presented within a 
shorter compass, by reducing the whole into one unbroken narra- 
tive, it is scarcely to be doubted, that the intelligent reader will be 
far more gratified by a sight of these original documents them- 
selves. 

Under the humble roof of his parents, it appears indeed that our 
poet had great advantages ; but his opportunities of information at 
school were more limited as to time than they usually are among 
his countrymen, in his condition of life ; and the acquisitions which 
he made, and the poetical talent which he exerted, under the pres- 



ROBERT BURNS. 45 

sure of early and incessant toil, and of inferior, and perhaps scanty 
nutriment, testify at once the extraordinary force and activity of 
his mind. In his frame of body he rose nearly to five feet ten 
inches, and assumed the proportions that indicate agility as well as 
strength. In the various labours of the farm he excelled all his 
competitors. Gilbert Burns declares, that, in mowing, the exercise 
that tries all the muscles severely, Robert was the only man that, at 
the end of a summer's day, he was ever obliged to acknowledge as 
his master. But though our poet gave the powers of his body to 
the labours of the farm, he refused to bestow on them his thoughts 
or his cares. While the ploughshare under his guidance passed 
through the sward, or the grass fell under the sweep of his scythe, 
he was humming the songs of his country, musing on the deeds of 
ancient valour, or rapt in the illusions of Fancy, as her enchant- 
ments rose on his view. Happily the Sunday is yet a sabbath, on 
which man and beast rest from their labours. On this day, there- 
fore, Burns could indulge in a freer intercourse with the charms of 
nature. It was his delight to wander alone on the banks of the 
Ayr, whose stream is now immortal, and to listen to the song of the 
blackbird at the close of the summer's day. But still greater was 
his pleasure, as he himself informs us, in walking on the sheltered 
side of a wood, in a cloudy winter day, and hearing the storm rave 
among the trees ; and more elevated still his delight, to ascend some 
eminence during the agitations of nature, to stride along its sum- 
mit, while the lightning flashed around him, and amidst the howl- 
ings of the tempest, to apostrophize the spirit of the storm. Such 
situations he declares most favourable to devotion — " Rapt in en- 
thusiasm, I seem to ascend towards Him who walks on the wings of 
the wind /" If other proofs were wanting of the character of his 
genius, this might determine it. The heart of the poet is peculiarly 
awake to every impression of beauty and sublimity ; but with the 
higher order of poets, the beautiful is less attractive than the su- 
blime. 

The gaiety of many of Burns's writings, and the lively, and even 
cheerful colouring with which he has pourtrayed his own character, 
may lead some persons to suppose, that the melancholy which hung 
over him towards the end of his days, was not an original part of 
his constitution. It is not to be doubted, indeed, that this melan- 
choly acquired a darker hue in the progress of his life ; but, inde- 
pendent of his own and of his brother's testimony, evidence is to be 
found among his papers, that he was subject very early to those de- 
pressions of mind, which are perhaps not wholly separable from the 
sensibility of genius, but which in him rose to an uncommon de- 
gree. The following letter, addressed to his father, will serve as a 
proof of this observation. It was written at the time when he was 
learning the business of a flax- dresser, and is dated 

" honoured sir, Irvine, Dec. 27, 1781. 

" I have purposely delayed writing, in the hope that I should have 
the pleasure of seeing you on New-year's day ; but work comes so 
hard upon us, that I do not chocse to be absent on that account, as 
well as for some other little reasons, which I shall tell you at meet- 
ing. My health is nearly the same as when you were here, only nrj 



46 LIFE OF 

sleep is a little sounder, and, on the whole, I am rather better than 
otherwise, though 1 mend by very slow degrees; The weakness of 
my nerves has so debilitated my mind, that I dare neither review 
past wants, nor look forward into futurity ; for the least anxiety or 
perturbation in my breast, produces most unhappy effects on my 
whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or two my 
spirits are a little lightened, I glimmer a, little into futurity ; but 
my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable employment, is look- 
ing backwards and forwards in a moral and religious way. I am 
quite transported at the thought, that ere long, perhaps very soon, 
1 shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains and uneasinesses, and 
disquietudes of this weary life ; for I assure you I am heartily tired 
of it ; and, if I do not very much deceive myself, I could contented- 
ly and gladly resign it. 

• The soul, uneasy, and confined at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' 

" It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, 16th, and 
17th verses on the 7th chapter of Revelations, than with any ten 
times as many verses in the whole Bible, and would not exchange 
the noble enthusiasm with which they inspire me lor all that this 
world has to offer. As for this world, I despair of ever making a 
figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the 
flutter of the gay. I shall never again be capable of entering into 
such scenes. Indeed I am altogether unconcerned at the thoughts 
of this life. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably await 
me, and I am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing to 
meet them. I have but just time and paper to return you my 
grateful thanks for the lessons of virtue and piety you have given 
me, which were too much neglected at the time of giving them, but 
which, I hope, have been remembered ere it is yet too late. Pre- 
sent my dutiful respects to my mother, and my compliments to 
Mr. and Mrs. Muir ; and with wishing you a merry New-year's-day, 
I shall conclude. 

"I am, honoured sir, 
" Your dutiful son, 

" ROBERT BURNS." 

" P.S. My meal is nearly out ; but I am going to borrow, till I 
get more. 

This letter written several years before the publication of his 
poems, when his name was as obscure as his condition was humble, 
displays the philosophic melancholy which so generally forms the 
poetical temperament, and that buoyant and ambitious spirit 
which indicates a mind conscious of its strength. At Irvine, Burns 
at this time possessed a single room for his lodgings, rented perhaps 
at the rate of a shilling a week. He passed his days in constant 
labour as a flax-dresser, and his food consisted chiefly of oatmeal 
sent to him from his father's family. The store of this humble, 
though wholesome nutriment, it appears was nearly exhausted, and 
he was about to borrow till he should obtain a supply. Yet even in 
this situation, his active imagination had formed to itself pictures 
of eminence and distinction. His despair of making a figure in the 



ROBERT BURNS. 47 

world, shows how ardently he wished for honourable fame J and his 
contempt of life, founded on this despair, is the genuine expression 
of a youthful generous mind. In such a state of reflection, and of 
suffering, the imagination of Burns naturally passed the dark boun- 
daries of our earthly horizon, and rested on those beautiful repre- 
sentations of a better world, where there is neither thirst, nor hun- 
ger, nor sorrow, and where happiness shall be in proportion to the 
capacity of happiness. 

Such a disposition is far from being at variance with social en- 
joyments. Those who have studied the affinities of mind, know 
that a melancholy of this description, after a while, seeks relief in 
the endearments of society, and that it has no distant connection 
with the flow of cheerfulness, or even the extravagance of mirth. 
It was a few days after the writing of this letter that our poet, " in 
giving a welcoming carousal to the new year, with his gay compa- 
nions," suffered his flax to catch fire, and his shop to be consumed 
to ashes. 

The energy of Burns' mind was not exhausted by his daily la- 
bours, the effusions of his muse, his social pleasures, or his solitary 
meditations. Some time previous to his engagement as a flax- dres- 
ser, having heard that a debating club had been established in Ayr, 
he resolved to try how such a meeting would succeed in the village 
of Tarbolton. About the end of the year 1780, our poet, his bro- 
ther, and five other young peasants of the neighbourhood, formed 
themselves into a society of this sort, the declared objects of which 
were to relax themselves after toil, to promote sociality and friend- 
ship, and to improve the mind. The laws and regulations were 
furnished by Burns. The members were to meet after the labours 
of the day were over, once a- week, in a small public- house in the 
village ; where each should offer his opinion on a given question or 
subject, supporting it by such arguments as he thought proper. 
The debate was to be conducted with order and decorum; and after 
it was finished, the members were to choose a subject for discus- 
sion at the ensuing meeting. The sum expended by each, was not 
to exceed three pence ; and, with the humble potation that this 
could procure, they were to toast their mistresses, and to cultivate 
friendship with each other. This society continued its meetings 
regularly for some time; and in the autumn of 1782, wishing to 
preserve some accounts of their proceedings, they purchased a 
book, into which their laws and regulations were copied, with a 
preamble, containing a short history of their transactions down to 
that period. This curious document, which is evidently the 
work of our poet, has been discovered, and it deserves a place in his 
memoirs. 

" History of the Rise, Proceedings, and Regulations of the Bachelor's 

Club. 

* Of birth or blood we do not boast, 

Nor gentry does our club afford ; 
But ploughmen and mechanics we 

In Nature's simple dress record.' 

u As the great end of human society is to become wiser and bet" 
ter, this ought therefore to be the principal view of every man in 



48 LIFE OF 

every station of life. But as experience has taught hs, that such 
studies as inform the head and mend the heart, when long continu- 
ed, are apt to exhaust the faculties of the mind, it has been found 
proper to relieve and unbend the mind by some employment or 
another, that may be agreeable enough to keep it3 powers in exer- 
cise, but at the same time not so serious as to exhaust them. But 
superadded to this, by far the greater part of mankind are under 
the necessity of earning the sustenance of human life by the labour of 
their bodies, whereby, not only the faculties of the mind, but the 
nerves and sinews of the body, are so fatigued, that it is absolutely 
necessary to have recourse to some amusement or diversion, to re- 
lieve the wearied man worn down with the necessary labours of 
life. 

"As the best of things, however, have been perverted to the 
worst of purposes, so, under the pretence of amusement and diver- 
sion, men have plunged into all the madness of riot and dissipation; 
and instead of attending to the grand design of human life, they 
have begun with extravagance and folly, and ended with guilt and 
wretchedness. Impressed with these considerations, we, the follow- 
ing lads in the parish of Tarbolton, viz. Hugh Reid, Kobert Burns, 
Gilbert Burns, Alexander Brown, Walter Mitchel, Thomas "Wright, 
and William M'Gavin, resolved, for our mutual entertainment, to 
unite ourselves into a club, or society, under such rules and regula- 
tions, that while we should forget our cares and labours in mirth 
and diversion, we might not transgress the bounds of innocence and 
decorum : and after agreeing on these, and some other regulations, 
we held our first meeting at Tarbolton, in the house of John 
Kichard, upon the evening of the 11th of ^November, 1780, come 
monly called Hallowe'en, and after choosing Robert Burns president 
for the night, we proceeded to debate on this question,- • Suppose 
a young man, bred a farmer, but without any fortune, has it in his 
power to marry either of two women, the one a girl oi large for- 
tune, but neither handsome in person, nor agreeable in conversa- 
tion, but who can manage the household affairs of a farm well 
enough ; the other of them a girl every way agreeable in person 
conversation, and behaviour, but without any fortune : which of 
them shall he choose V Finding ourselves very happy in our 
society, we resolved to continue to meet once a month in the same 
house, in the way and manner proposed, and shortly thereafter we 
chose Robert Ritchie for another member. In May, 1781, we 
brought in David Sillar, and in June, Adam Jamaison as members. 
About the beginning of the year 1782, we admitted Matthew Pat- 
terson, and John Orr, and in June following we chose James Patter- 
son as a proper brother for such a society. The club being thus in- 
creased, we resolved to meet at Tarbolton on the race night, the 
July following, and have a dance in honour of our society. Ac- 
cordingly we did meet, each one with a partner, and spent the 
evening in such innocence and merriment, such cheerfulness and 
good humour, that every brother will long remember it with plea- 
sure and delight." To this preamble are subjoined the rules and 
regulations. 

The philosophical mind will dwell with interest and pleasure on 
an institution that combined so skiifullj the means cf instruction 



ROBERT BURNS. 49 

and of happiness ; and if grandeur look down with a smile on these 
simple annals, let us trust that it will be a smile of benevolence and 
approbation. It is with regret that the sequel of the history of the 
Bachelor's Club of Tarbolton must be told. It survived several 
years after our poet removed from Ayrshire, but no longer sustained 
by his talents, or cemented by his social affections, its meetings lost 
much of their attraction ; and at length, in an evil hour, dissension 
arising amongst its members, the institution was given up, and the 
records committed to the flames. Happily the preamble and the 
regulations were spared ; and, as matter of instruction and of ex- 
ample, they are transmitted to posterity. 

After the family of our bard removed from Tarbolton to the 
neighbourhood of Mauchline, he and his brother were requested to 
assist in forming a similar institution there. The regulations of 
the club at Mauchline were nearly the same as those of the club at 
Tarbolton ; but one laudable alteration was made. The lints for 
non-attendance had at Tarbolton been spent in enlarging their 
scanty potations : at Mauchline it was fixed, that the money so 
arising, should be set apart for the purchase of books : and the 
first work procured in this manner was the Mirror, the separate 
numbers of which were at that time recently collected and pub- 
lished in volumes. After it followed a number of other works, 
chiefly of the same nature, and among these the Lounger. The 
society of Mauchline still subsists, and was in the list of subscribers 
to the first edition of the works of its celebrated associate. 

The members of these two societies were originally all young men 
from the country, and chiefly sons of farmers ; a description of per- 
sons in the opinion of our poet, more agreeable in their manners, 
more virtuous in their conduct, and more susceptible of improve- 
ment, than the self-sufficient mechanic of country towns. With 
deference to the Conversation-society of Mauchline, it may be 
doubted, whether the books which they purchased were of a kind 
best adapted to promote the interest and happiness of persons in this 
situation of life. The Mirror and the Lounger, though works of 
great merit, may be said, on a general view of their contents, to be 
less calculated to increase the knowledge, than to refine the taste of 
those who read them; and to this last object their morality itself, 
which is however always perfectly pure, may be considered as sub- 
ordinate. As works of taste, they deserved great praise. They are 
indeed, refined to a high degree of delicacy ; and to this circum- 
stance it is perhaps owing, that they exhibit little or nothing of 
the peculiar manners of the age or country in which they were pro- 
duced. But delicacy of taste, though the source of many pleasures, 
is not without some disadvantages ; and to render it desirable, the 
possessor should perhaps in all cases be raised above the necessity 
of bodily labour, unless indeed we should include under this term 
the exercise of the imitative arts, over which taste immediately 
presides. Delicacy of taste may be a blessing to him who has the 
disposal of his own time, and who can choose what book he shall 
read, of what diversion he shall partake, and what company he 
shall keep. To men so situated, the cultivation of taste affords a 
grateful occupation in itself, and opens a path to many other grati- 
I 



50 LIFE OF 

fications. To men of geniu3, in the possession of opulence and lei- 
sure, the cultivation of the taste may be said to be essential ; since 
it affords employment to those faculties which, without employment 
would destroy the happiness of the possessor, and corrects that mor- 
bid sensibility, or, to use the expression of Mr. Hume, that delicacy 
of passion, which is the bane of the temperament of genius. Happy 
had it been for our bard, after he emerged from the condition of a 
peasant, had the delicacy of his taste equalled the sensibillity of his 
passions, regulating all the effusions of his muse, and presiding 
over all his social enjoyments. But to the thousands who share the 
original condition of Burns, and who are doomed to pass their lives 
in the station in which they were born, delicacy of taste, were it 
even of easy attainment, would, if not a positive evil, be at least a 
doubtful blessing. Delicacy of taste may make many necessary 
labours irksome or disgusting ; and should it render the cultivator 
of the soil unhappy in his situation, it presents no means by which 
that situation may be improved. Taste and literature, which dif- 
fuse so many charms throughout society, which sometimes secure 
to their votaries distinction while living, and which still more fre- 
quently obtain for them posthumous fame, seldom procure opulence, 
or even independence, when cultivated with the utmost attention, 
and can scarcely be pursued with advantage by the peasant in the 
short intervals of leisure which his occupations allow. Those who 
raise themselves from the condition of daily labour, are usually 
men who excel in the practice of some useful art, or who join 
habits of industry and sobriety to an acquaintance with some of the 
more common branches of knowledge. The penmanship of Butter- 
worth, and the arithmetic of Cocker, may be studied by men in the 
humblest walks of life ; and they will assist the peasant more in the 
pursuit of independence, than the study of Homer or of Shakspeare, 
though he could comprehend, and even imitate, the beauties of 
those immortal bards. 

These observations are not offered without some portion of doubt 
and hesitation. The subject has many relations, and would justify 
an ample discussion. It may be observed, on the other hand, that 
the first step to improvement is to awaken the desire of improve- 
ment, and that this will be most effectually done by such reading 
as interests the heart and excites the imagination. The greater 
part of the sacred writings themselves, which in Scotland are more 
especially the manual of the poor, come under this description. It 
may be farther observed, that every human being is the proper 
judge of his own happiness, and, within the path of innocence, 
ought to be permitted to pursue it. Since it is the taste of the 
Scottish peasantry to give a preference to works of taste and of 
fancy, it may be presumed they find a superior gratification in the 
perusal of such work3 ; and it may be added, that it is of more con- 
sequence they should be made happy in their original condition, 
than furnished with the means, or with the desire, of rising above 
it. Such considerations are doubtless of much weight; neverthe- 
less, the previous reflections may deserve to be examined, and here 
we shall leave the subject. 

Though the records of the society at Tarbolton are lost and those 
of the society of Mauchline have not been transmitted, yet we may 



ROBERT BURNS, 51 

safely affirm, that our poet was a distinguished member of both 
these associations, which were well calculated to excite and to de- 
velope the powers of his mind. From seven to twelve persons con- 
stituted the society at Tarbolton, and such a number is best suited 
to the purposes of information. Where this is the object of these 
societies, the number should be such, that each person may have 
an opportunity of imparting his sentiments, as well as of receiving 
those of others ; and the powers of private conversation are to be 
employed, not those of public debate. A limited society of this 
kind, where the subject of conversation is fixed beforehand, so that 
each member may revolve it previously in his mind, is perhaps one 
the happiest contrivances hitherto discovered for shortening the 
acquisition of knowledge, and hastening the evolution of talents. 
Such an association requires indeed somewhat more of regulation 
than the rules of politeness established in common conversation ; 
or rather, perhaps, it requires that the rules of politeness, which in 
animated conversation are liable to perpetual violation, should be 
vigorously enforced. The order of speech established in the club 
at Tarbolton, appears to have been more regular than was required 
in so small a society; where all that is necessary seems to be, the 
fixing on a member to whom every speaker shall address himself, 
and who shall in return secure the speake^from interruption. 
Conversation, which among men whom intimacy and friendship 
have relieved from reserve and restraint, is liable, when left to 
itself, to so many inequalities, and which, as it becomes rapid, so 
often diverges into separate and collateral branches, in which it is 
dissipated and lost, being kept within its channel by a simple limi- 
tation of this kind, which practice renders easy and familiar, flows 
along in one full stream, and becomes smoother and clearer, and 
deeper, as it flows, it may also be observed, that in this way the 
acquisition of knowledge becomes more pleasant and more easy, 
from the gradual improvement of the faculty emj>loyed to convey 
it. Though some attention has been paid to the eloquence of the 
senate and the bar, which in this, as in all other free governments, 
is productive of so much influence to a few who excel in it, yet 
little regard has been paid to the humbler exercise of speech in 
private conversation, an art that is of consequence to every descrip- 
tion of persons under every form of government, and on which elo- 
quence of every kind ought perhaps to be founded. 

The first requisite of every kind of elocution, a distinct utter- 
ance, is the offspring of much time, and long practice. Children 
are always defective in clear articulation, and so are young people, 
though of a less degree. What is called slurring in speech, pre- 
vails with some persons through life, especially in those who are 
taciturn. Articulation does not seem to reach its utmost degree of 
distinctness in men before the age of twenty, or upwards : in wo- 
men it reaches this point somewhat earlier. Female occupations 
require much use of speech, because they are duties in detail. Be- 
sides, their occupations being generally sedentary, the respiration 
is left at libery. Their nerves being more delicate, their sensibility 
as well as fancy is more lively ; the natural consequence of which 
is, a more frequent utterance of thought, a greater fluency of 
speech, and a distinct articulation at an earlier age. But in men 



52 LIFE OF 

who have not mingled early and familiarly with the world, though 
rich perhaps in knowledge, and clear in apprehension, it is often 
painful to observe the difficulty with which their ideas are commu- 
nicated by speech, through the want of those habits, that connect 
thoughts, words, and sounds together ; which, when established, 
seem as if they had arisen spontaneously, but which, in truth, are 
the result of long and painful practice, and when analyzed, exhibit 
the phenomena of most curious and complicated association. 

Societies then, such as we have been describing, while they may 
be said to put each member in possession of the knowledge of all 
the rest, improve the powers of utterance, and by the collision 
of opinion, exite the faculties of reason and reflection. To those 
who wish to improve their minds in such intervals of labour as the 
conditions of a peasant allows, this method of abbreviating instruc- 
tion, may, under proper regulations, be highly useful. To the stu- 
dent, whose opinions, springing out of solitary observation and me- 
ditation, are seldom in the first instance correct, and which have 
notwithstanding, while confined to himself, an increasing tendency 
to assume in his own eye the character of demonstrations, an asso- 
ciation of this kind, where they may be examined as they arise, is 
of the utmost importance ; since it may prevent those illusions of 
imagination, by wmch genius being bewildered, science is often 
debased, and error propagated through successive generations. 
And to men who, having cultivated letters or general science in 
the course of their education, are engaged in the active occupations 
of life, and no longer able to devote to study or to books the time 
requisite for improving or preserving their acquisitions, associa- 
tions of this kind, where the mind may unbend from its usual cares 
in discussions of literature or science, afford the most pleasing, the 
most useful, and most rational of gratifications. 

Whether, in the humble societies of which he was a member, 
Burns acquired much direct information, may perhaps be question- 
ed. It cannot however be doubted, that by collision, the faculties 
of his mind would be excited, that by practice, his habits of 
enunciation would be established, and thus we have some explan- 
ation of that early command of words and of expression which 
enabled him to pour fourth his thoughts in language not unworthy 
of his genius, and which, of all his endowments, seemed, on his 
appearance in Edinburgh, the most extraordinary. For associations 
of a literary nature, our poet acquired a considerable relish ; and 
happy had it been for him, after he emerged from the condition of 
a peasant, if fortune had permitted him to enjoy them in the 
degree of which he was capable, so as to have fortified his prin- 
ciples of virtue by the purification of his taste, and given to the 
energies of his mind habits of exertion that might have excluded 
other associations, in which it must be acknowledged they were too 
often wasted, as well as debased. 

The whole course of the Ayr is fine ; but the banks of that river, 
as it bends to the eastward above Mauchline, are singularly beauti- 
ful, and they were frequented, as may be imagined, by our poet 
in his solitary walks. Here the muse often visited him. In one of 
these wanderings, he met among the woods a celebrated Beauty of 
the west of Scotland a lady of whom it is said, that the charms of 



ROBERT BURNS. 53 

her person corresponded with the character of her mind. This 
incident gave rise, as might be expected, to a poem, of which an 
account will be found in the letter, in which he enclosed it to the 
object of his inspiration : 

To Miss . 

"Madame, Mossgiel, 18th Nov. 1786. 

" Poets are such outre beings, so much the children of wayward 
fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the world generally 
allows them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the 
sober sons of judgment and prudence. I mention thi3 as an apology 
for the liberties that a nameless stranger has taken with you in the 
enclosed poem, which he begs leave to present you with. Whether 
it has poetical merit any way worthy of the theme, I am not the 
proper judge; but it is the best my abilities can produce ; and 
what to a good heart will perhaps be superior grace, it is equally 
sincere as fervent. 

" The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I dare say, 
madam, you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed 
the poetic reveur as he wandered by you; I had roved out as 
chance directed in the favourite haunts of m# muse, on the banks 
of the Ayr, to view nature in all the gaiety of the vernal year. 
The evening sun was naming over the distant western hills ; not a 
breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, or the verdant spread- 
ing leaf. It was a golden moment for a poetic heart. I listened to 
the feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on every hand, with 
a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my path, 
lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten them to another 
station. Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, 
regardless of your harmonious endeavour to please him, can eye 
your elusive flights to discover your secret recesses, and to rob you 
of all the property nature gives you, your dearest comforts, your 
helpless nestlings. Even the hoary hawthorn-twig that shot across 
the way, what heart at such a time but must have been interested 
in its welfare, and wished it preserved from the rudely browsing 
cattle, or the withering eastern blast ? Such was the scene, and 
such the hour, when in a corner of my prospect, I spied one of the 
fairest pieces of Nature's workmanship that ever crowned a poetic 
landscape, or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards excepted who 
hold commerce with aerial beings ! Had Calumny and Villany 
taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with 
such an object. 

" What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It would have raised 
plain, dull, historic prose into metaphor and measure. 

" The enclosed song was the work of my return home ; and per- 
haps it but poorly answers what might be expected from such a 
scene. 



" I have the honour to be, 
"Madam, 
" Your most obedient, and very 
" humble servant, 
"ROBERT BURNS." 



54 LIFE OF 

'Twas even — the dewy fields were green, 

On every blade the pearls hang ; 
The Zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang ; 
In every glen the mavis sang, 

All nature listening seemed the while, 
Except where green- wood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward strayed, 

My head rejoiced in nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
Perfection whisper'd passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild ; 
When roving through the garden gay, 

Or wandering in the lonely wild : 
But woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile : 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

O had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Though sheltered in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plains. 
Through weary winter's wind and rain, 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil, 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slippery steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine : 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine, 

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

In the manuscript book in which our poet has recounted this in- 
cident, and into which the letter and poem are copied, he complains 
that the lady made no reply to his effusions, and this appears to 
have wounded his self-love. It is not, however, difficult to find an 
excuse for her silence. Burns was at that time little known, and 
where known at all, noted rather for the wild strength of his hu- 
mour, than for those strains of tenderness, in which he afterwards 
so much excelled. To the lady herself his name had perhaps never 
been mentioned, and of such a poem she might not consider herself 
as the proper judge. Her modesty might prevent her from per- 






ROBERT BURNS. 55 

ceiving that the muse of Tibullus breathed in the nameless poet 
and that her beauty was awakening strains destined to immortality 
on the banks of the Ayr. It may be conceived, also, that suppos- 
ing the verses duly appreciated, delicacy might find it difficult to 
express its acknowledgments. The fervent imagination of the rus- 
tic bard possessed more of tenderness than of respect. Instead of 
raising himself to the condition of the object of his admiration, 
he presumed to reduce her to his own, and to strain this high born 
beauty to his daring bosom. It is true, Burns might have found 
precedents for such freedoms among the poets of Greece and Rome, 
and indeed of every country. And it is not to be denied, that 
lovely women have generally submitted to this sort of profanation 
with patience, and even good humour. To what purpose is it to 
repine at misfortune which is the necessary consequence of their 
own charms, or to remonstrate with a description of men who are 
incapable of control 1 

1 The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, 
Are of imagination all compact.' 

It may easily be presumed, that the beautiful nymph of Balloch- 
myle, whoever she may have been, did not reject with scorn the 
adorations of our poet, though she received them with silent 
modesty and dignified reserve. 

The sensibility of our bard's temper, andthe force of his imagin- 
ation, exposed him in a particular manner to the impressions of 
beauty ; and these qualities united to his impassioned eloquence 
gave him in turn a powerful influence over the female heart. The 
banks of the Ayr formed the scene of youthful passions of a still 
tenderer nature, the history of which it would be improper to re- 
veal, were it even in our power, and the traces of which will soon 
be discoverable only in those strains of nature and sensibility to 
which they gave birth. The song entitled Highland Mary, i3 known 
to relate to one of these attachments. " It was written," says our 
bard, "on one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days." 
The object of this passion died in early life, andthe impression left 
on the mind of Burns seems to have been deep and lasting. Several 
years afterwards, when he was removed to Nithsdale, he gave vent 
to the sensibility of his recollections in the following impassioned 
lines : in the manuscript book from which we extract them, they 
are addressed To Mary is Heaven ! 

Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, 

That Jov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O ! Mary dear departed shade ! 

"Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid t 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
That sacred hour can 1 forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love ! 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 



56 LIFE OF 



Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods thick'ning green : 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be press'd, 

The birds sang love on every spray, 
Till too, too soon the glowing west 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 
Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ; 
Time but the impression deeper makes 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My May. dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowJy laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend hi3 breast? 

To the delineations of the poet by himself, by his brother, and 
by his tutor, these additions are necessary, in order that the reader 
may see his character in its various aspects, and may have an op- 
portunity of forming a just notion of the variety, as well as the 
power of his original genius. 

We have dwelt the longer on the early part of his life, because 
it is the least known, and because, as has already been mentioned, 
this part of his history is connected with some views of the condition 
and manners of the humblest ranks of society, hitherto little ob- 
served, and which will perhaps be found neither useless nor uninter- 
esting. 

About the time of leaving his native country, his correspondence 

commences ; and in the series of letters now given to the world, 

the chief incidents of the remaining part of his life will be found. 

This authentic, though melancholy record, will supersede in future 

the n essity of any extended narrative 

Bursts set out for Edinburgh in the month of November, 1786. 
and arrived on the second day afterwards, having performed his 
journey on foot. He was furnished with a letter of introduction 
to Dr. Blacklock, from the gentleman to whom the Doctor had ad- 
dressed the letter which is represented by our bard as the immediate 
cause of his visiting the Scottish metropolis. He was acquainted 
Dr. Stewart, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University, and 
had been entertained by that gentleman at Catrine, his estate in 
Ayrshire. He had been introduced by Mr. Alexander Dalzel to 
the Earl of Glencairn, who had expressed his high approbation of 
his poetical talents. He had friends therefore who could introduce 
him into the circles of literature as well a3 of fashion, and his own 
manners and appearance exceeding every expectation that could 
have been formed of them, he soon became an object of general cu- 
riosity and admiration. The following circumstance contributed 
to this in a considerable degree. — At the time when Burns arrived 
in Edinburgh, the periodical paper, entitled The Lounger, was 
publisding, every Saturday producing a successive number. His 
poems had attracted the notice of the gentlemen engaged in that 
undertaking, and the ninety-seventh mumber of those unequal, 
though frequently beautiful essays, is devoted to An Account of 
Robert Burns, tne Ayrshire ploughman, with extracts from his Poems 
written by the elegant pen of Mr. Mackenzie. The Lounger had 









ROBEBT BURNS, 61 

an extensive circulation among persons of taste and literature, not 
in Scotland only, but in various parts of England, to whose acquaint- 
ance therefore our bard was immediately introduced. The paper 
of Mr. Mackenzie was calculated to introduce him advantageously. 
The extracts arc well selected ; the criticisms and reflections are 
j udicious as well as generous ; and in the style and sentiments there 
is that happy delicacy, by which the writings of the author are 
so eminently distinguished. The extracts from Burns' poems in 
the ninety- seventh number of The Lounger were copied into the 
London, as well a3 into many of the principal papers, and the fame 
of our bard spread throughout the island. Of the manners, 
character, and conduct of Burns at this period, the following 
account has been given by Mr. Stewart, in a letter to the editor, 
which he is particularly happy to have obtained permission to in- 
sert in .these memoirs. 

Professor Dugald Stewart of Edinburgh to Dr. James Currie of 

Liverpool. 

" The first time I saw Kobert Burns was on the 23rd of October, 
1786, when he dined at my house in Ayrshire, together with our 
common friend Mr. John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauchline, to whom 
I am indebted for the pleasure of his acquaintance. I am enabled 
to mention the date particularly, by some verses which Burns wrote 
after he returned home, and in which the day of our meeting is re- 
corded. — My excellent and much lamented friend, the late Basil, 
Lord Daer, happened to arrive at Catrine the same day, and by the 
kindness and frankness of his manners, left an impression on the 
mind of the poet, which never was effaced. The verses I allude to 
are among the most imperfect of his pieces ; but a few stanzas may 
perhaps be an object of curiosity to you, both on account of the 
character to which they relate, and of the light which they throw 
on the situation and feelings of the writer, before his name was 
known to the public. 

" I cannot positively say, at this distance of time, whether, at the 
period of our first acquaintance, the Kilmarnock edition of his 
poems had been just published, or was yet in the press. I suspect 
that the latter was the case, a3 I have still in my possession copies, 
in his own hand- writing, of some of his favourite performances ; 
particularly of his verses "on turning up a Mouse with his plough;" 
— " on the Mountain Daisy f and " the Lament." On my return 
to Edinburgh, I showed the volume, and mentioned what I knew 
of tbe author's history, to several of my friends, and, among others, 
to Mr. Henry Mackenzie, who first recommended him to public no- 
tice in the 9th number of The Lounger. 

At this time Bums' prospects in life were so extremely gloomy, 
that he had seriously formed a plan of going out to Jamacia in a 
very humble situation, not, however, without lamenting, that his 
want of patronage should force him to think of a project so repug- 
nant to his feelings, when his ambition aimed at no higher an ob- 
ject than the station of an exciseman or ganger in his own country. 

u His manners were then, as they continued ever afterwards, 
simple, manly, and independent; strongly expressive of conscious 
o 5 



58 LIFE OF 

genius and worth ; but without any thing that indicated forward- 
ness, arrogance, or vanity. He took his share in conversation, but 
not more than belonged to him ; and listened with apparent atten- 
tion and deference, on subjects where his want of education de- 
prived him of the means of information. If there had been a little 
more of gentleness and accommodation in his temper, he would, I 
think, have been still more interesting; but he had been accus- 
tomed to give law in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; 
and his dread of any thing approaching to meanness or servility, 
rendered his manner somewhat decided and hard. Nothing, per- 
haps, was more remarkable among his various attainments, than the 
fluency, and precision, and originality of his language, when he 
spoke in company ; more particularly as he aimed at purity in his 
turn of expression, and avoided more successfully than most Scotch- 
men, the peculiarities of Scottish phraseology. 

" He came to Edinburgh early in the winter following, and re- 
mained there for several months. By whose advice he took this 
step, I am unable to say. Perhaps it was suggested only by his own 
curiosity to see a little more of the world ; but, I confess, I dreaded 
the consequences from the first, and always wished that his pur- 
suits and habits should continue the same as in the former part of 
life ; with the addition of, what I considered as then completely 
within his reach, a good farm on moderate terms, in a part of the 
country agreeable to his taste. 

" The attentions he received during his stay in town from all 
ranks and descriptions of persons, were such as would have turned 
any head but his own. I cannot say that I could perceive any un- 
favourable effect which they left on his mind. He retained the 
same simplicity of manners and appearance which had struck me 
so forcibly when I first saw him in the country ; nor did he seem 
to feel any additional self-importance from the number and rank of 
his new acquaintance. Hi3 dress was perfectly suited to his station, 
plain and unpretending, with a sufficient attention to neatness. If 
I recollect right he always wore boots ; and, when on more than 
usual ceremony, buck-skin breeches. 

" The variety of his engagements, while in Edinburgh, prevented 
me from seeing him so often as I could have wished. In the course 
of the spring he called on me once or twice, at my request, early in 
the morning, and wa)ked with me to Braid- Hills, in the neighbour* 
hood of the town, when he charmed me still more by his private 
conversation, than he had ever done in company. He was passion- 
ately fond of the beauties of nature ; and I recollect once he told 
me, when I was admiring a distant prospect in one of our morning 
walk3, that the sight of so many smoking cottages gave a pleasure 
to his mind, which none could understand who had not witnessed, 
like himself, the happiness and the worth which they contained. 

w In his political principles he was then a Jacobite; which was 
perhaps owing partly to this, that his father was originally from the 
estate of Lord Mareschell. Indeed he did not appear to have 
thought much on such subjects, nor very consistently. He had a 
very strong sense of religion, and expressed deep regret at the levity 
with which he had heard it treated occasionally in some convivial 
meetings which he frequented. I speak of him as he was in the 



ROBERtf BURNS. 59 

winter of 1786-7; for afterwards we met but seldom, and our con- 
versations turned chiefly on his literary projects, or his private af- 
fairs. 

" I do not recollect whether it appears or not from any of your 
letters to me, that you had ever seen Burns. If you have, it is 
superfluous for me to add, that the idea which his conversation con- 
veyed of the powers of his mind, exceeded, if possible, that which is 
suggested by his writings. Among the poets whom I have hap- 
pened to know, I have been struck, in more than one instance, 
with the unaccountable disparity between their general talents, 
and the occasional inspirations of their more favoured moments. 
But all the faculties of Burns's mind were, as far as I could judge, 
equally vigorous ; and his predilection for poetry was rather the re- 
sult of his own enthusiastic and impassioned temper, than of a 
genius exclusively adapted to that species of composition. From 
his conversation I should have pronounced him to be fitted to ex- 
cel in whatever walk of ambition he had chosen to exert his abilities. 

" Among the subjects on which he was accustomed to dwell, the 
characters of the individuals with whom he happened to meet, was 
plainly a favourite one. The remarks he made on them were al- 
ways shrewd and pointed, though frequently inclining too much to 
sarcasm. His praise of those he loved was sometimes indiscriminate 
and extravagant; but this, 1 suspect, proceeded rather from the 
caprice and humour of the moment, than from the effects of attach- 
ment in blinding his judgment. His wit was ready, and always 
impressed with the marks of a vigorous understanding ; but, to my 
taste, not often pleasing or happy. His attempts at epigram, in his 
printed works, are the only performances, perhaps, that he has 
produced, totally unworthy of his genius. 

" In summer, 1787, 1 passed some weeks in Ayrshire, and saw 
Burns occasionally. I think that he made a pretty long excursion 
that season to the Highlands, and that he also visited what Beattie 
calls the Arcadian ground of Scotland, upon the banks of the Teviot 
and the Tweed. 

" I should have mentioned before, that notwithstanding various 
reports I heard during the preceding winter, of Burns's predilection 
for convivial, and not very select society, I should have concluded 
in favour of his habits of sobriety, from all of him that ever fell 
under my own observation. He told me indeed himself, that the 
weakness of his stomach was such as to deprive him entirely of any 
merit in his temperance. I was however somewhat alarmed about 
the effect of his now comparatively sedentary and luxurious life, 
when he confessed to me, the first night he spent in my house afUr 
his winter's campaign in town, that he had been much disturbed 
when in bed, by a palpitation at his heart, which, he said, was a 
complaint to which he had of late become subject. 

" In the course of the same season I was led by curiosity to at- 
tend for an hour or two a Masonic- Lodge in Mauchline, where 
Burns presided. He had occasion to make short unpremeditated 
compliments to different individuals from whom he had no reas< m 
to expect a visit, and every thing he said was happily conceived, 
and forcibly as well as fluently expressed. If I am not mistaken, 
he told me, that in that village, before going to Edinburgh, he 



60 £IFE OF 

had belonged to a small club of such of the inhabitants as had a 
taste for books, when they used to converse and debate on any in- 
teresting questions that occurred to them in the course of their 
reading. Hi3 manner of speaking in public had evidently the marks 
of some practice in extempore elocution. 

" I must not omit to mention, what I have always considered as 
characteristical in a high degree of true genius, the extreme faclity 
and good nature of his taste, in judging of the compositions of 
others, when there was any real grounds for praise. 1 repeated to 
him many passages of English poetry with which he was unac- 
quainted, and have more than once witnessed the tears of admira- 
tion and rapture with which he heard them. The collection of 
songs by Dr. Aiken, which I first put into his hands, he read with 
unmixed delight, notwithstanding his former efforts in that very 
difficult species of writing ; and I have little d oubt that it had 
some effect in polishing his subsequent compositions. 

" In judging of prose, I do not think his taste was equally sound. 
I once read to him a passage or two in Franklin's works, which I 
thought very happily executed, upon the model of Addison ; but 
he did not appear to relish, or to perceive the beauty which they 
derived from their exquisite simplicity, and spoke of them with 
indifference when compared with the point, and antithesis, and 
quaintness of Junius. The influence of this taste is very percep- 
tible in his own prose compositions, although their great and va- 
rious excellencies render some of them scarcely less objects of won- 
der than his poetical performances. The late Dr. Kobertson used 
to say, that considering his education, the latter seemed to him the 
more extraordinary of the two. 

" His memory was uncommonly retentive, at least for poetry, of 
which he recited to me frequently long compositions with the most 
minute accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, and other pieces in 
our Scottish dialect ; great part of them (he told me) he had learned 
in his childhood, from his mother, who delighted in such recita- 
tions, and whose poetical taste, rude as it probably was, gave, it is 
presumable, the first direction of her son's genius. 

" Of the more polished verses which accidentally fell into his 
hands in his early years, he mentioned particularly the recommen- 
datory poems, by different authors, prefixed to Herveys Medita- 
tions ; a book which has always had a very wide circulation among 
such of the country people of Scotland, as affect to unite some de- 
gree of taste with their religious studies. And these poems (al- 
though they are certainly below mediocrity) he continued to read 
with a degree of rapture beyond expression. He took notice of this 
fact himself, as a proof how much the taste is liable to be influenced 
by accidental circumstances. 

" His father appeared to me, from the account he gave of him, to 
have been a respectable and worthy character, possessed of a mind 
superior to what might have been expected from his station in life. 
He ascribed much of his own principles and feelings to the early 
impressions he had received from his instructions and example. I 
recollect that he one.?, applied to him, (and he added, that the pas- 
sage was a literal statement of fact), the two last lines of the follow- 



KOBERT BURNS. 61 

ing passage in the Minstrel, the whole of which he repeated with 
great enthusiasm ; 

i Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, 

When fate relenting, lets the flower revive ; 
Shall natures voice, to man alone unjust, 

Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live?' 
Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive 

With disappointment, penury, and pain ? 
No ! Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive ; 

And man's majestic beauty bloom again, 
Bright through th' eternal year of love's triumphant reign. 

This truth sublime, his simple sire had taught : 
In sooth 'twas almost all the shepherd knew. 

" With respect to Burns's early education, I cannot say any thing 
with certainty. He always spoke with respect and gratitude of the 
school-master who had taught him to read English ; and who, find- 
ing in his scholar a more than ordinary ardour for knowledge, had 
been at pains to instruct him in the grammatical principles of the 
language. He began the study of Latin, but dropped it before he 
had finished the verbs. I have sometimes heard him quote a few 
Latin words, such as omnia vincit amor &c. but they seemed to be 
such as he had caught from conversation, and which he repeated by 
rote. I think he had a project after he came to Edinburgh, of pro- 
secuting the study under his intimate friend, the late Mr. JSTicol, 
one of the masters of the grammar-school here ; but I do not know 
if he ever proceeded so far as to make the attempt. 

" He certainly possessed a smattering of French ; and, if he had 
an affectation in any thing, it was in introducing occasionally a 
word or a phrase from that language. It is possible that his know- 
ledge in this respect might be more extensive than I suppose it to 
be ; but that you can learn from his more intimate acquaintance. 
It would be worth while to inquire, whether he was able to read 
the French authors with such facility as to receive from them any 
improvement to his taste. For my own part, I doubt it much — nor 
would I believe it, but on very strong and pointed evidence. 

" if my memory does not fail me, he was well instructed in arith- 
metic, and knew something of practical geometry, particularly of 
surveying. — All his other attainments were entirely his own. 

"The last time I saw him was during the winter, 1788 89 ; when 
he passed an evening with me at Drunsheugh, in the neighbour- 
hood of Edinburgh, where I was then living. My friend Mr. Alison 
was the only other in company. I never saw him more agreeable 
or interesting. A present which Mr. Alison sent him afterwards of 
his Essays on Taste, drew from Burns a letter of acknowledgment, 
which I remember to have read with some degree of surprise at the 
distinct conception he appeared from it to have formed, of the seve- 
ral principles of the doctrine of association. When I saw Mr. Ali- 
son in Shropshire last autumn, 1 forget to inquire if the letter be 
still in existence. If it is, you may easily procure it, by means of 
cur friend Mr. Houlbrooke." 

******* 

The scene that opened on our bard in Edinburgh was altogether 
new, and in a variety of other respects highly interesting, especially 



62 LIFE OF 

to one of his disposition of mind. To Hse an expression of his own 
he found himself " suddenly translated from the veriest shades of 
life," into the presence, and, indeed, into the society of a number 
of persons, previously known to him by report as of the highest dis- 
tinction in his country, and whose characters it was natural for him 
to examine with no common curiosity. 

From the men of letters, in general, his reception was particular- 
ly flattering. The late Dr. Robertson, Dr. Blair, Dr. Gregory, Mr. 
Stewart, Mr. Mackenzie, and Mr. Fraser Tytler, may be mentioned 
in the list of those who perceived his uncommon talents, who ac- 
knowledged more especially his power in conversation, and who 
interested themselves in the cultivation of his genius. In Edin- 
burgh, literary and fashionable society are a good deal mixed. Our 
bard was an acceptable guest in the gayest and most elevated circles, 
and frequently received from female beauty and elegance, those at- 
tentions above all others most grateful to him. At the table of 
Lord Monboddo he was a frequent guest ; and while he enjoyed the 
society, and partook of the hospitalities of the venerable Judge, he 
experienced the kindness and condescension of his lovely and accom- 
plished daughter. The singular beauty of thi3 young lady was illu- 
mined by that happy expression of countenance which results from 
the union of cultivated taste and superior understanding, with the 
finest affections of the mind . The influence of such attractions was 
not unfelt by our poet. n There has not been any thing like Mis3 
Burnet," said he in a letter to a friend, " in all the combinations of 
beauty, grace, and goodness, the Creator has formed, since Milton's 
Eve on the first day of her existence." In his Address to Edin- 
burgh, she is celebrated in a strain of still greater elevation : 

1 Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine; 
I see the Sire of Love on high, 

And own his works indeed divine 1' 

This lovely woman died a few year3 afterwards in the flower of 
her youth. Our bard expressed his sensibility on that occasion, in 
verses addressed to her memory. 

Among the men of rank and fashion, Burns was particularly dis- 
tinguished by James, Earl of Glencaim. On the motion of this 
nobleman, the Caledonian Hunt, (an association of the principal of 
the nobility and gentry of Scotland,) extended their patronage to our 
bard, and admitted him to their gay orgies. He repaid their notice 
by a dedication of the enlarged and improved edition of his poems, 
in which he has celebrated their patriotism and independence in 
very animated terms. 

u I congratulate my country that the blood of her ancient he- 
roes runs uncontaminated ; and that, from your courage, know- 
ledge, and public spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and 
liberty. * * * May corruption shrink at your kindling 
indignant glance ; and may tyranny in the ruler, and licentiousness 
in the people, equally find in you an inexorable foe !" 

It is to be presumed that these generous sentiments, uttered at 
an era singularly propitious to independence of character and con- 
duct, were favourably received by the persons to whom they were 
addressed, and that they were echoed from every bosom, as well as 



ROBERT BtfRNS. 63 

from that of the Earl of Glencairn. This accomplished nobleman^ 
a scholar, a man of taste and sensibility, died soon afterwards. Had 
he lived, and had his power equalled his wishes, Scotland might 
still have exulted in the genius, instead of lamenting the early 
fate of her favourite bard. 

A taste for letters is not always conjoined with habits of tem- 
perance and regularity ; and Edinburgh, at the period of which 
we speak, contained perhaps an uncommon proportion of men of 
considerable talents, devoted to social excesses, in which their 
talents were wasted and debased. 

Burns entered into several parties of this description, with the 
usual vehemence of his character. His generous affections, his ar- 
dent eloquence, his brilliant and daring imagination, fitted him to 
be the idol of such associations ; and accustoming himself to con- 
versation of unlimited range, and to festive indulgences that 
scorned restraint, he gradually lost some portion of his relish for 
the more pure, but less poignant pleasures, to be found in the 
circles of taste, elegance, and literature. The sudden alteration in 
his habits of life operated on him physically as well as morally. — 
The humble fare of an Ayrshire peasant he had exchanged for the 
luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and the effects of this change 
on his ardent constitution could not be inconsiderable. But what- 
ever influence might be produced on his conduct, his excellent un- 
derstanding suffered no correspondent debasement. He estimated 
his friends and associates of every description at their proper value, 
and appreciated his own eonduct with a precision that might give 
scope to much curious and melancholy reflection. He saw his dan- 
ger, and at times formed resolutions to guard against it ; but he 
had embarked on the tide of dissipation, and was borne along its 
stream. 

Of the state of his mind at this time, an authentic, though im- 
perfect document remains in a book which he procured in the 
spring of 1787, for the purpose, as he himself informs us, of re- 
cording in it whatever seemed worthy of observation. The fol- 
lowing extracts may serve as a specimen : 

Edinburgh, April 9, 1787. 

u As I have seen a good deal of human life in Edinburgh, a great 
many characters which are new to one bred up in the shades of 
life as I have been, I am determined to take down my remarks on 
the spot. Gray observes in a letter to Mr. Palgrave, ' that half a 
word fixed upon, or near the spot, is worth a cart-load of recollec- 
tion.' I don't know how it is with the world in general, but with 
me, making my remarks is by no means a solitary pleasure. I want 
some one to laugh with me, some one to be grave with me, some 
one to please me, and help my discrimination, with his or her own 
remark, and, at times, no doubt, to admire my acuteness and 
penetration. The world are so busied with selfish pursuits, ambi- 
tion, and vanity, interest, or pleasure, that very few think it worth 
their while to make any observation on what passes around them, 
except where that observation is a sucker, or branch of the darling 
plant they are rearing in their fancy. Now 1 am sure, notwithstand- 
ing all the sentimental flights of novel-writers, and the sage phi- 



64 LIFE OF 

losophy of moralists, whether we are capable of so intimate and 
cordial a coalition of friendship, as that one man may pour out his 
bosom, his every thought and floating fancy, his very inmost soul, 
with unreserved confidence to another, without hazard of losing 
part of that respect which man deserves from man ; or from the 
unavoidable imperfections attending human nature, of one day re- 
penting his confidence. 

"For these reasons I am determined to make these pages my con- 
fident. I will sketch every character that any way strikes me, to 
the best of my power, with unshrinking justice. I will insert 
anecdotes, and take down remarks, in the old law phrase, without 
feud or favour. — Where I hit on any thing clever, my own applause 
will, in some measure, feast my vanity ; and begging Patroclus' and 
Achates' pardon, I think a lock and key a security, at least equal to 
the bosom of any friend whatever. 

" My own private story likewise, my love adventures, my ram- 
bles ; the frowns and smiles of fortune on my hardship ; my poems 
and fragments, that must never see the light, shall be occasionally 
inserted. — In short, never did four shillings purchase so much 
iriendship since confidence went first to market, or honesty was set 
up for sale. 

" To these seemingly invidious, but too just ideas of human 
friendship, I would cheerfully make one exemption— the connexion 
between two persons of different sexes, when their interests are 
united and absorbed by the tie of love — 

When thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, 
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart. 

" There, confidence — confidence that exalts them the more in one 

another's opinion, that endears them the more to each other's 

hearts, unreservedly ' reigns and revels.' But this is not my lot ; 

and, in my situation, if I am wise (which by the bye I have no 

real chance of being), my fate should be cast with the Psalmist's 

sparrow ' to watch alone on the house tops, — Oh, the pity i 
****** 

" There are few of the sore evils under the sun give me more un- 
easiness and chagrin than the comparision how a man of genius, 
nay of avowed worth, is received every where, with the reception 
which a mere ordinary character, decorated with the trappings and 
and futile distinctions of fortune, meets. I imagine a man of 
abilities, his breast glowing with honest pride, conscious that men 
are all born equal, still giving honour to whom honour is due; he 
meets, at a great man's "table, a Squire something, or a Sir some- 
body ; ho knows the nolle landlord, at heart, gives the bard, or 
whatever he is, a share of his good wishes, beyond, perhaps, any one 
at table; yet how will itoioriify him to see a fellow, whose abili- 
ties would scarcely have made an eiyhteenpenny tailor, and whose 
heart is not worth three farthings, meet with attention and notice, 
that are withheld from the son of genius and poverty] 

" The noble G has wounded me to the soul here, because I 

dearly esteem, respect, and love him. He showed me so much at- 
tention — engrossing attention, one day, to the only blockhead at 
table (the whole company consisted of his lordship, dunderpate, 
and niYself), that I was within half a point of throwing down my 



ROBEBT BURNS. 65 

gage of contemptuous defiance ; but he shook my hand, and looked 
so benevolently good at parting. God bless him, though I should 
never see him more, I shall love him until my dying day ! I am 
pleased to think I am so capable of the throes of gratitude, as I am 
miserably deficient in some other virtues. 

"With lam more at my ease. I never respect him with humble 

veneration ; but when he kindly interests himself in my welfare, 
or still more when he descends from bis pinacle, and meets me on 
equal ground in conversation, my heart overflows with what is 
called liking. When he neglects me for the mere carcass of great- 
ness, or when his eye measures the difference of our points of ele- 
vation, I say to myself, with scarcely any emotion, what do I care 

for him, or his pomp either V 

***** 

The intentions of the poet in procuring this book, so fully de- 
scribed by himself, were very imperfectly executed. He has in- 
serted into it a few or no incidents, but several observations and 
reflections, of which the greater part that are proper for the public 
eye, will be found interwoven in the volume of his letters. The 
most curious particulars in the book are the delineation of the cha- 
racters he met with. These are not numerous; but they are 
chiefly of persons of distinction in the republic of letters, and no- 
thing but the delicacy and respect due to living characters prevents 
us from committing them to the press. Though it appears that in 
his conversation he wa3 sometimes disposed to sarcastic remarks on 
the men with whom he lived, nothing of this kind is discoverable in 
these more deliberate efforts of his understanding, which, while they 
exhibit great clearness of discrimination, manifest also the wish, as 
well as the power, to bestow high and generous praise. 

By the new edition of his poems, Burns acquired a sum of money 
that enabled him not only to partake of the pleasure, of Edinburgh, 
but to gratify a desire he had long entertained, of visiting those 
parts of his native country, most attractive by their beauty or their 
grandeur ; a desire which the return of summer naturally revived. 
The scenery on the banks of the Tweed, and of its tributary streams 
strongly interested his fancy ; and, accordingly, he left Edinburgh 
on the 6th of May, 1787, on a tour through a country so much 
celebrated in the rural songs of Scotland. He travelled on horse- 
back, and was accompanied, during some part of his journey, by Mr. 
Ainslie, now writer to the signet, a gentleman who enjoyed much of 
his friendship and of his confidence. Of this tour a journal remains, 
which, however, contains only occasional remarks on the scenery, 
and which is chiefly occupied with an account of the author's dif- 
ferent stages, and with his observations on the various characters to 
whom he was introduced. In the course of this tour he visited Mr. 
Ainslie of Berry well, the father of his companion ; Mr. Dry done, 
the celebrated traveller, to whom he carried a letter of introduction 
from Mr. Mackenzie; the Rev. Dr. Somerville of Jedburgh, the his- 
torian ; Mr. and Mrs. Scott of Wauchope ; Dr. Elliot, physician, re- 
tired to a romantic spot on the banks of the Roole ; Sir Alexander 
Don ; Sir James Hall of Douglass ; and a great variety of other re- 
spectable characters. Every where the fame of the poet had spread 
before him, and every where he received the most hospitable and 



66 LIFE OF 

flattening attentions. At Jedburgh he continued several days, and 
was honoured by the magistrates with the freedom of their borough. 
The following may serve as a specimen of this tour, which the per- 
petual reference to living characters prevents our giving at large. 

" Saturday, May 6. Left Edinburgh — Lammer-muir hills, mi' 
serably dreary in general, but at times very picturesque. 

" Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. Eeach Berry well. 
. . . The family- meeting with my compagnon de voyage, very 
charming ; particularly the sister. 

* Sunday. Went to church at Dunse. Heard Dr. Bowmaker. 

"Monday. Coldstream — glorious river. Tweed — clear and ma- 
jestic — fine bridge — dine at Coldstream with Mr. Ainslie and Mr. 
Foreman. Beat Mr. Ainslie in a dispute about Voltaire. Drink 
tea at Lennel -House with Mr. and Mrs. Brydone. * ' ■ Recep- 
tion extremely flattering. Sleep at Coldstream. 

" Tuesday* Breakfast at Kelso — charming situation of the town 
fine bridge over the Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on 

both sides of the river, especially on the Scotch side 

Visit Roxburgh Palace — fine situation of it. Ruins of Roxburgh 
Castle. A holly -bush growing where James the Second was acci- 
dentally killed by the bursting of a cannon. A small old religious 
ruin and a fine old garden planted by the religious, rooted out and 
destroyed by a Hottentot, a maitre a" hotel of the Duke's ! — Climate 
and soil of Berwickshire, and even Roxburghshire, superior to 
Ayrshire — bad roads — turnip and sheep husbandry, their great im- 
provements. . . . Low markets, consequently low lands — mag- 
nificence of farmers and farm -houses. Come up the Teviot, and up 
the Jed to Jedburgh, to lie, and so wish myself good night. 

" Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. Fair Charming 

romantic situation of Jedburgh, with gardens and orchards, inter- 
mingled among the houses and the ruins of a once magnificent ca- 
thedral. All the towns here have the appearance of old rude 
grandeur, but extremely idle. Jed, a fine romantic little river. — 
Dined with Captain Rutherford, .... return to Jedburgh. 
Walked up the Jed with some ladies to be shown Love-lane, and 
Blackburn, two fairy scenes. Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, and 
to Mr. Somerville, the clergyman of the parish, a man, and a gen- 
tleman, but sadly addicted to punning. 

*'* * * * * * * 

u Jedburgh, Saturday. Was presented by the magistrates with 
the freedom of the town. 

u Took Farewell of Jedburgh, with some melancholy sensations. 

"Monday, May 14. Kelso. Dine with the farmer's club — all 
gentleman talking of high matters — each of them keeps a hunter 
from £30 to £50 value and attends the fox-hunting club in the 
country. Go out 'with Mr Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr 
Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind and manners, Mr Ainslie's, is 
astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir — Every thing 
in his house elegant. He offers to accompany me in my English 
tour. 

" Tuesday. Dine with Sir Alexander Don; a very wet day ■ • 

• Sleep at Mr Ker's again, and set out next day for Melrose — 
visit Dryburgh a fine old ruined abbey, by the way. Cross the 






ROBERT BURNS. 67 

Leader, and come up the Tweed to Melrose. Dine there, and visit 

that far-famed glorious ruin — Come to Selkirk up the Banks of 

Ettrick. The whole country hereabouts, both on Tweed and 

Ettrick, remarkably stony." 

****** 

Having spent three weeks in exploring this interesting scenery 
Burns crossed over into Northumberland. Mr Ker, and Sir Hood, 
two gentlemen with w r hom he had become acquainted in the course 
of his tour, accompanied him, He visited Alnwick Castle ; the 
princely seat of the Duke of Northumberland ; the hermitage and 
old castle of Warkworth ; Morpeth and Newcastle. — In this town 
he spent two days, and then proceeded to the south-west by Hexham 
and Wardrue, to Carlisle. — After spending a few days at Carlisle 
with his friend Mr Mitchell, he returned into Scotland, and at 
Annan his journal terminates abruptly. 

Of the various persons with whom he became acquainted in the 
course of this journey, he has, in general, given some account; and 
almost always a favourable one. That on the banks of the Tweed 
and of the Teviot, our bard should find nymphs that were beauti- 
ful, is what might be confidently presumed. Two of these are 
particularly described in his journal. But it does not appear that 
the scenery, or its inhabitants, produced any effort of his muse, as 
was to have been wished and expected. From Annan, Burns pro- 
ceeded to Dumfries, and thence through Sanquhar, to Mossgiel, 
near Mauchline, in Ayrshire, where he arrived about the 8 th of 
June, 1787, after an absence of six busy and eventful months. It 
will be easily conceived with what pleasure and pride he was re- 
ceived by his mother, his brothers, and sisters. He had left them 
poor, and comparatively friendless ; he returned to them high in 
public estimation, and easy in his circumstances. He returned to 
them unchanged in his ardent affections, and ready to share with 
them to the uttermost farthing, the pittance that fortune had 
bestowed. 

Having remained with them a few days, he proceeded again to 
Edinburgh, and immediately set out on a journey to the Highlands. 
Of this tour no particulars have been found among his manuscripts. 
A letter to his friend Mr. Ainslie, dated Arracho.s, near CrochoArlas, 
ly Lochleary, June 28, 1787, commences as follows : 

" I write you this on my tour through a country where savage 
streams tumble over savage mountains, thinly overspread with 
savage flocks, which starvingly support as savage inhabitants. 
My last stage was Inverary — to-morrow night's stage, Dumbarton. I 
ought sooner to have answered your kind letter, but you know I am 
a man of many sins." 

From this journey Burns returned to his friends in Ayrshire, 
with whom he spent the month of July, renewed his friendships, 
and extended his acquaintance throughout the county, where he 
was now very generally known and admired. In August he again 
visited Edinburgh, whence he undertook another journey towards 
the middle of this month in company with Mr. M. Adair, now Dr. 
Adair, of Harrowgate, of which this gentleman has favoured us with 
the following account : 

u Burns and I left Edinburgh together in August, 1787. We rode 



68 LIFE OF 

by Linlithgow and Carron to Stirling. We visited the ironworks 
at Carron, with which the poet was forcibly struck. The resem- 
blance between that place, and its inhabitants, to the cave of 
Cyclops, which must have occurred to every classical visitor, pre- 
sented itself to Burns. At Stirling the prospects from the castle 
strongly interested him ; in a former visit to which, his national 
feelings had been powerfully excited by the ruinous and roofless 
state of the hall in which the Scottish Parliaments had frequently 
been held. His indignation had vented itself in some imprudent 
but not unpoetical lines, which had given much offence, and which 
he took this opportunity of erasing, by breaking the pane of the 
window at the inn on which they were written. 

" At Stirling we met with a company of travellers from Edin- 
burgh, among whom was a character in many respects congenial 
with that of Burns. This was Nicol, one of the teachers of the 
High Grammar- School at Edinburgh — the same wit and power of 
conversation ; the same fondness for convival society, and thought- 
lessness of tomorrow, characterized berth. Jacobitical principles in 
politics were common to both of them; and these have been suspect- 
ed, since the revolution of France, to have given place to each, to 
opinions apparently opposite. I regret that I have preserved no 
memorabilia of their conversation, either on this or on other occa- 
sions, when I happened to meet them together. Many songs were 
sung ; which I mention for the sake of observing, that when Burns 
was called on in his turn, he was accustomed, instead of singing, to 
recite one or other of his own shortest poems, with a tone and em- 
phasis, which, though not correct or harmonious, were impressive 
and pathetic. This he did on the present occasion. 

" From Stirling we went next morning through the romantic and 
fertile vale of Devon to Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, then in- 
habited by Mrs. Hamilton, with the younger part of whose family 
Burns-had been previously acquainted. He introduced me to the 
family, and there was formed my first acquaintance with Mrs. 
Hamilton's eldest daughter, to whom I have been married for nine 
years. Thus was I indebted to Burns for a connexion from which 
I have derived, and expect further to derive, much happiness. 

"During a residence of about ten days at Harvieston, we made 
excursions to visit various parts of the surrounding scenery, infe- 
rior to none in Scotland, in beauty, sublimity, and romantic interest ; 
particularly Castle Campbell, the ancient seat of the family of 
Argyle ; and the famous cataract of the Devon, called the Cauldron 
Linn ; and the Rumbling Bridge, a single broad arch, thrown by 
the Devil, if tradition is to be believed, across the river, at about 
the height of a hundred feet above its bed. I am surprised that 
none of these scenes should have called forth an exertion of Burns's 
muse. But I doubt if he had much taste for the picturesque. I 
well remember, that the ladies at Harvieston, who accompanied us 
on this jaunt, expressed their disappointment at his not expressing 
in more glowing and fervid language, his impressions of the Caul- 
dron Linn scene, certainly highly sublime, and somewhat horrible. 

" A visit to Mrs. Bruce of Clackmannan, a lady above ninety, the 
lineal descendant of that race who gave the Scottish throneits bright- 
est ornament, interested his feelings more powerfully. This venerable 



ROBERT BURNS. 69 

dame with characteristical dignity, informed me, on my observing 
that I believed she was descended from the family of Robert Bruce, 
that Robert Bruce was sprung from her family. Though almost de- 
prived of speech by a paralytic affection, she preserved her hospi- 
tality and urbanity. She was in possession of the hero's helmet and 
two-handed sword, with which she conferred on Burns and myself 
the honour of knight -hood, remarking, that she had a better right 
to confer that title than some people. ' . . . . You will of course 
conclude that the old lady's political tenets were as Jacobitical as 
the poet's, a conformity which contributed not a little to the cordi- 
ality of our reception and entertainment.— She gave as her first 
toast after dinner, awa, Uncos, or, Away with the Strangers. — Who 
these strangers were, you will readily understand. Mrs A. corrects 
me by saying it should be Hooi, or Hoolii uncos, a sound used by 
shepherds to direct their dogs to drive away the sheep. 

" We returned to Edinburgh by Kinross (on the shore of Loch- 
leven) and Queen sferry. I am inclined to think Burns knew no- 
thing of poor Michael Bruce, who was then alive at Kinross, or had 
died there a short while before. A meeting between the bards, or 
a visit to the deserted cottage and early grave of poor Bruce, would 
have been highly interesting. 

"At Dunfermline we visited the ruined abbey, and the abbey- 
church, now consecrated to Presbyterian worship. Here I mounted 
the cutty stool, or stool of repentance, assuming the character of a 
penitent for fornication; while Burns from the pulpit addressed to 
me a ludicrous reproof and exhortation, parodied from that which 
had been delivered to himself in Ayrshire, where he had, he assured 
me, once been one of seven who mounted the seat of shame together. 

" In the church yard two broad flag-stones marked the grave of 
Robert Bruce, for whose memory Burns had more than common 
veneration. He knelt and kissed the stone with sacred fervour, 
and heartily (suus ut mos erat) execrated the worse than Gothic 
neglect of the first of Scottish heroes. * 

The surprise expressed by Dr. Adair, in his excellent letter, that 
the romantic scenery of the Devon should have failed to call forth 
any exertion of the poet's muse, is not in its nature singular ; and 
the disappointment felt at his not expressing in more glowing 
language his emotions on the sight of the famous cataract of that 
river, is similar to what was felt by the friends of Burns, on other 
occasions of the same nature. Yet the inference that Dr. Adair 
seems inclined to draw from it, that he had little taste for the 
picturesque, might be questioned, even if it stood uncontroverted 
by other evidence. The muse of Burns was in a high degree 
capricious ; she came uncalled, and often refused to attend at his 
bidding. Of all the numerous subjects suggested to him by his 
friends and correspondents, there is scarcely one that he adopted. 
The very expectation that a particular occasion would excite the 
energies of fancy, if communicated to Burns, seemed in him, as in 
other poets, destructive of the effect expected. Hence perhaps it 
may be explained, why the banks of the Devon and the Tweed form 
no part of the subject of his song. 

A similar train of reasoning may perhaps explain the want of 



70 LIFE OF 

emotion with which he viewed the Cauldron Linn. Certainly 
there are no affections of the mind more deadened bj the influence 
of previous expectation, than those arising from the sight of 
natural objects, and more especially of objects of grandeur. Minute 
description of scenes, of a sublime nature, should never be given to 
those who are about to view them, particularly if they are persons 
of great strength and sensibility of imagination. Language seldom 
or never conveys an adequate idea of such objects, but in the mind 
of a great poet it may excite a picture that far transcends them. 
The imagination of Burns might form a cataract in comparison 
with which the Cauldron Linn should seem the purling of a rill, 
and even the mighty falls of Niagara a humble cascade. 

Whether these suggestions may assist in explaining our Bard's 
deficiency of impression on the occasion referred to, or whether it 
ought rather to be imputed to some pre-occupation, or indisposition 
of mind, we presume not to decide ; but that he was in general 
feelingly alive to the beautiful or sublime in scenery, may be sup- 
ported by irresistible evidence. It is true, this pleasure was greatly 
heightened in his mind, as might be expected, when combined with 
moral emotions of a kind with which it happily unites. That un- 
der this association Burns contemplated the scenery of the Devon 
with the eye of a genuine poet, the following lines, written at this 
very period, may bear witness. 

On a Young Lady, residing on the banks of the small river Devon, in 
Clackmannanshire^ hut ivhose infant years were spent in Ayrshire, 

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon 
With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair; 

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon 
V> r as once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 

In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! 
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 
f That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 

O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 

With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! 
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 

The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lillies, 

And Eng'and triumphant display her proud rose ; 

A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 
Where Devon, swtet Devon, meandering flows. 

The different journeys already mentioned did not satisfy the 
curiosity of Barns. About the beginning of September he again 
set out from Edinburgh, on a more extended tour to the Highlands, 
in company with Mr. Xicol, with whom he had contracted a par- 
ticular intimacy, which lasted during the remainder of his life. 
Mr. Nicol was of Dumfries-shire, of a descent equally humble with 
our poet. Like him he rose by the strength of his talents, and fell 
by the strength of his passions. He died in the summer of 1797. 
Having received the elements of a classical instruction at his parish 
school, Mr. Kicol made a very rapid and singular proficiency ; and 
by early undertaking the office of an instructor himself, he 
acquired the means of entering himself at the University 
of Edinburgh, There he was first a student of theology, then 



ROBERT BURNS. 71 

a student of medicine, and was afterwards employed in the 
assistance and instruction of the graduates in medicine, in those 
parts of their exercises in which the Latin language is employed. 
In this situation he was the contemporary and rival of the cele- 
brated Dr. Brown, whom he resembled in the particulars of his 
history, as well as in the leading features of his character. The 
office of assistant teacher in the High- School being vacant, it was, 
as usual, filled up by competition ; and, in the face of some pre* 
judices, and perhaps of some well founded objections, Mr. Nicol, 
by superior learning, carried it from all the other candidates. This 
office he filled at the period of which we speak. 

It is to be lamented, that an acquaintance with the writers of 
Greece and Rome does not always supply an orignal want of taste 
and correctness in manners and conduct ; and where it fails of this 
effect, it sometimes inflames the native pride of temper, which 
treats with disdain those delicacies in which it has not learned to 
excel. It was thus with the fellow-traveller of Burns. Formed 
by nature in a model of great strength, neither his person nor his 
manners had any tincture of taste or elegance ; and his coarseness 
was not compensated by that romantic sensibility, and those tower- 
ing flights of imagination, which distinguished the conversation of 
Burns, in the blaze of whose genius all the deficiencies of his man- 
ners were absorbed and disappeared. 

Mr. Nicol and our poet travelled in a post-chaise, which they en* 
gaged for the journey, and passing through the heart of the High- 
lands, stretched northwards, about ten miles beyond Inverness. 
There they bent their course eastward, across the island, and re- 
turned by the shore of the German Sea to Edinburgh. In the 
course of this tour, some particulars of which will be found in a 
letter of our bard, No. 34, they visited a number of remarkable 
scenes, and the imagination of Burns was constantly excited by the 
wild and sublime scenery through which he passed. Of this, seve- 
ral proofs may be found in the poems formerly printed. <>f the 
history of one of these poems, The humble Petition of Bruar Water, 
and of the bard's visit to Athole House, some particulars will be 
found in Letters No. 33. and JSTo. 34 : and by the favour of Mr. 
Walker of Perth, then residing in the family of the Duke of 
Athole, we are enabled to give the following additional account. 

"On reaching Blair, he sent me notice of his arrival (as I had 
been previously acquainted with him), and I hastened to meet him 
at the inn. The Duke, to whom he brought a letter of intro- 
duction, was from home; but the Duchess, being informed of his 
arrival, gave him an invitation to sup and sleep at Athole House. 
He accepted the invitation ; but, a3 the hour of supper was at 
some distance, begged I would in the interval be his guide through 
the grounds. It was already growing dark; yet the softened, 
though faint and uncertain, view of their beauties, which the 
moonlight afforded us, seemed exactly suited to the state of his 
feelings at the time. I had often, like others, experienced the 
pleasures which arises from the sublime or elegant landscape, but I 
never saw those feelings so intense as in Burns. When we reached 
a rustic hut on the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody 
precipice, from which there is a noble water-fall, he threw himself 



72 LIFE OF 

on the heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, 
and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. I cannot help thinking 
it might have been here that he conceived the idea of the follow- 
ing lines, which he afterwards introduced into his poem, on Bruar 
Water, when only fancying such a combination of objects as were 
now present to the eye. 

Or by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild, chequering through the trees , 
Rave to Boy darkly-dashing stream , 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

" It was with much difficulty I prevailed on him to quit this 
spot, and to be introduced in proper time to supper. 

"My curiosity was great to see how he would conduct himself 
in company so different from ' what he had been accustomed to. 
His manner was unembarrassed, plain, and firm. He appeared to 
have complete reliance on his own native good sense for directing 
his behaviour. He seemed at once to perceive and to appreciate 
what was due to the company and to himself, and never to forget a 
proper respect for the separate species of dignity belonging to each. 
He did not arrogate conversation, but, when led into it, he spoke 
with ease, propriety, and manliness. He tried to exert his abilities, 
because he knew it was ability alone that gave him a title to be there. 
The Duke's line young family attracted much of his admiration; 
he drank their healths as honest men and bonnie lassies an idea which 
was much applauded by the company, and with which he has very 
felicitously closed his poem. 

" Next day I took a ride with him through some of the* most ro- 
mantic parts of that neighbourhood, and was highly gratified by 
his conversation. As a specimen of his happiness of conception and 
strength of expression, I will mention a remark which he made on 
his fellow-traveller, who was walking at the time a few paces before 
us. He was a man of a robust but clumsy person ; and while Burns 
wa3 expressing to me the value he entertained for him, on account 
of his vigorous talents, although they were clouded at times by 
coarseness of manners; "in short," he added, "his mind is like his 
body, he has a confounded strong in-knee'd sort of a soul." 

" Much attention was paid to Burns both before and after the 
Duke's return, of which he was perfectly sensible, without being 
vain ; and at his departure I recommended to him, as the most ap- 
propriate return he could make, to write some descriptive verses 
on any of the scenes with which he had been so much delighted. 
After leaving Blair, he, by the Duke's advice, visited the Falls of 
Bruar, aud in a few days I received a letter from Inverness, with 
the verses enclosed." 

It appears that the impression made by our poet on the noble 
family of Athole was in a high degree favourable : it is certain he 
was charmed with the reception he received from them, and he of- 
ten mentioned the two days he spent at A thole-house as among the 
happiest of his life. He was warmly invited to prolong his stay, 
but sacrificed his inclinations to his engagement with Mr. Nicol ; 
which is the more to be regretted, as he would otherwise have been 
introduced to Mr. Dundas (then daily expected on a visit to the 
Duke), a circumstance that might have had a favourable influence 



£OBfll*r BURNS. 73 

on Burns's future fortunes. At Athole house, he met for the first 
time, Mr. Graham of Fintry, to whom he was afterwards indebted 
for his office in the Excise. 

The letters and poems which he addressed to Mr. Graham, bear 
testimony of his sensibility, and justify the supposition, that he 
would not have been deficient in gratitude had he been elevated to 
a situation better suited to his disposition and to his talents. 

A few days after leaving Blair Athole, our poet and his fellow- 
traveller arrived at Fochabers. In the course of the preceding 
winter Burns had been introduced to the Duchess of Gordon at 
Edinburgh, and presuming on his acquaintance, he proceded to 
Gordon Castle, leaving Mr. Nichol at the inn in the village. At 
the castle our poet was received with the utmost hospitality and 
kindness, and the family being about to sit down to dinner, he was 
invited to take his place at the table, as a matter of course. This 
invitation he accepted, and after drinking a few glasses of wine, he 
rose up and proposed to withdraw. On being pressed to stay, he 
mentioned, for the first time, his engagement with his fellow-travel- 
ler ; and his noble host offering to send a servant to conduct Mr. 
Nicol to the castle, Burns insisted on undertaking that office him- 
self. He was however, accompanied by a gentleman, a particular 
acquaintance of the Duke, by whom the invitation was delivered in 
all the forms of politeness. The invitation came too late ; the pride 
of Nicol was inflamed to a high degree of passion, by the neglect 
which he had already suffered. He had ordered the horses to be put 
to the carriage, being determined to proceed on his journey alone: 
and they found him parading the streets of Fochabers, before the door 
of the inn, venting his anger on the postilliou, for the slownes with 
which he obeyed his commands. As no explanation nor entreaty 
could change the purpose of his fellow-traveller, our poet was re- 
duced to the necessity of separating from him entirely, or of in- 
stantly proceeding with him on their journey. He chose the last 
of these alternatives : and seating himself beside Nicol in the post- 
chaise, with mortification and regret, he turned his back on Gordon 
Castle, where he had promised himself some happy days. Sensible, 
however, of the great kindness of the noble family, he made the 
best return in his power, by the following poem. 

Streams that glide in orient plains 
Never bound by winter chains ; 
Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's empurpled bands; 
These, their richly gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
The banks by Castle-Gordon. 

Spicy forests ever gay, 
Shading forth the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil 
Or the ruthless native's way 
Bent on slaughter, blood and spoil 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave, 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle-Gordon. 



74 LIFS o£ 

Widly here without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
In that sober pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling soul, 
She plants the forest, pours the flood, 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
By bonnie Castle- Gordon. 

Burns remained in Edinburgh during the greater part of the 
winter, 1787-8, and again entered into the society and dissipation 
of that metropolis. It appears that on the 31st day of December, 
he attended a meeting to celebrate the birth* day of the lineal de- 
scendant of the Scottish race of kings, the late unfortunate Prince 
Charles Edward. Whatever might have been the wish or purpose 
of the original institutors of this annual meeting, there is no reason 
to suppose that the gentlemen of which it was at this time com- 
posed, were not perfectly loyal to the king and the throne. It is 
not to be conceived that they entertained any hope of, any wish for, 
the restoration of the House of Stuart ; but, over their sparkling 
wine, they indulged the generous feelings which the recollection of 
fallen greatness is calculated to inspire ; and commemorated the 
heroic valour which strove to sustain it in vain — valour worthy of 
a nobler cause and a happier fortune. On this occasion our bard 
took upon himself the office of poet-laureate, and produced an ode, 
which, though deficient in the complicated rhythm and polished 
versification that such composition require, might, on a fair com- 
petition, where energy of feeling and of expression were alone in 
question, have won the butt of Malmsey from the real laureate of 
that day. 

The following extracts may serve as a specimen : 



False flatterer, Hope, away ! 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore 

We solemnize this sorrowing natal day, 
To prove our loyal truth — we can no more : 

And, owning Heaven's mysterious sway 
Submissive, low, adore. 

Ye honour'd mighty dead ! 
Who nobly perish'd in the glorious cause, 
Your king, your country , and her laws ; 

From great Dundee, who smiling victory led, 
And fell a martyr ■ in her arms, 
(What breasts of northern ice but warms ?) 
To bold Balmerino's undying name, 
Whose soul, of fire, lighted at Heaven's high flame, 
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim. 

Not unrevenged your fate shall be ; 

It only lags the fatal hour ; 
Your blood shall with incessant cry 

Awake at last th' unsparing power. 
As from the cliff, with thundering course, 
The snowy ruin smokes along, 
With doubling speed and gathering force, 
Till the deep it crushing whelms the cottage in the. vale 
So vengeance * * * 



ROBERT BURKS. 15 

In relating the incidents of our poet's life in Edinburgh, we 
ought to have mentioned the sentiments of respect snd sympathy 
with which he traced out the grave of his predecessor Ferguson, 
over whose ashes, in the Cannongate church-yard, he obtained 
leave to erect a monument, which will be viewed by reflecting 
minds with no common interest, and which will awake, in the 
bosom of kindred genius, many a high emotion. Neither should 
we pass over the continued friendship he experienced from a 
poet then living, the amiable and accomplished Blacklock. — To 
nis encouraging advice it was owing (as has already appeared) that 
Burns instead of emigrating to the West Indies, repaired to Edin- 
burgh. He received him there with all the ardour of affectionate 
admiration ; he blazoned his fame ; he lavished upon him all the kind- 
ness of a generous heart into which nothing selfish or envious ever 
found admittance. Among the friends whom he introduced to 
Burns wa3 Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, to whom our poet paid a 
visit in the autumn of 1787, at his delightful retirement in the 
neighbourhood of Stirling, and on the banks of the Teith. Of this 
we have the following particulars : 

" I have been in the company of many men of genius," says Mr. 
Ramsay, " some of them poets, but never witnessed such flashes of 
intellectual brightness as from him, the impulse of the moment, 
sparks of celestial fire ! I never was more delighted, therefore, 
than with his company for two days, tete-a-tete. In a mixed company 
I should have made little of him ; for in the gamester's phrase, he 
did not always know when to play off and when to play on. . . 
I not only proposed to him the writing of a play similar to the 
Gentle Shepherd, qualem, decet esse sororem, but Scottish georgics, a 
subject which Thomson has by no means exhausted in his Seasons. 
What beautiful landscapes of rural life and manners might not 
have been expected from a pencil so faithful and so forcible as his, 
which could have exhibited scenes as familiar and interesting as 
those in the Gentle Shepherd, which every one who knows our swains 
in the unadulterated state, instantly recognizes as true to nature. 
But to have executed either of these plans, steadiness and abstrac- 
tion from company were wanting, not talents. When I asked him 
whether the Edinburgh Literati had mended his poems by their 
criticisms, ' Sir/ said he, ' these gentlemen remind me of some 
spinsters in my country, who spin their thread so fine that it is 
neither fit for weft nor woof.' He said he had not changed a word 
except one, to please Dr. Blair."* 

Having settled with his publisher, Mr. Creech, in February, 
1788, Burns found himself master of nearly five hundred pounds, 
after discharging all his expenses. Two hundred pound she imme- 
diately advanced to his brother Gilbert, who had taken upon him- 
self the support of their aged mother, and was struggling with 
many difficulties in the farm of Mossgiel. With the remainder of 
this sum, and some further eventual profits from his poems, he de- 
termined on settling himself for life in the occupation of agricul- 

* Extract of a letter from Mr. Ramsay to the Editor " This incorrigibility of 
Burns extended, however, only to his poems printed before he arrived in Edin- 
burgh ; for, in regard to his unpublished poems, he was amenable to criticism, of 
which many proofs may b« given," See some remarks on this subject, in Ap- 
pendix* 



76 £i:fe of 

ture and took from Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, the farm of Ellisland, 
on the blanks of the river Nith, six miles above Dumfries, on which 
he entered at Whitsunday, 1788. Having been previously recom- 
mended to the Board of Excise, his name had been put on the list 
of candidates for the humble office of a gauger or exciseman ; and 
he immediately applied to acquiring the information necessary for 
filling that office, when the honourable Board might judge it pro- 
per to employ him. 

He expected to be called into service in the district in which his 
farm was situated, and vainly hoped to unite with success the la- 
bours of the farmer with the duties of the exciseman. 

When Burns had in this manner arranged his plans for futurity, 
his generous heart turned to the object of his most ardent attach- 
ment, and listening to no considerations but those of honour and 
affection, he joined with her in a public declaration of marriage, 
thus legalizing their union, and rendering it permanent for life. 

Before Burns was known in Edinburgh, a specimen of his poetry 
had recommended him to Mr. Miller of Dalswinton. Understand- 
ing that he intended to resume the life of a farmer, Mr. Miller had 
invited him in the spring of 1787, to view his estate in Mthsdale, 
offering him at the same time the choice of any of his farms out of 
lease, at such a rent as Burns and his friends might judge proper. 
It was not in the nature of Burns to take an undue advantage of 
Mr. Miller. He proceeded in his business, however, with more 
than usual deliberation. Having made choice of the farm of Ellis- 
land, he employed two of his friends skilled in the value of land, to 
examine it, and, with their approbation, offered a rent to Mr. 
Miller, which was immediately accepted. It was not convenient 
for Mrs. Burns to remove immediately from Ayrshire, and our poet 
therefore took up his residence alone at Ellisland, to prepare for 
the reception of his wife and children, who joined him towards the 
end of the year. 

The situation in which Burns now found himself, was calculated 
to awaken reflection. The different steps he had of late taken were 
in their nature highly important, and might be said to have, in some 
measure, fixed his destiny. He had become a husband and a father : 
he had engaged in the management of a considerable farm, a diffi- 
cult and laborious undertaking ; in his success the happiness of his 
family were involved ; it was time, therefore, to abandon the gaiety 
and dissipation of which he had been too much enamoured ; to 
ponder seriously on the past, and to form virtuous resolutions 
respecting the future. That such was actually the state of his 
mind the following extract from his common- place book may bear 
witness : — 

"Ellisland, Sunday, 14th June, 1788. 
" This is now the third day that I have been in this country. 
' Lord, what is man V What a bustling little bundle of passions, 
appetites, ideas and fancies ! and what a capricious kind of exist- 
ence he has here ! . . There is indeed an elsewhere, where as 
Thompson says, virtue sole survives. 

" Tell us, ye dead : 
"Will none of you in pity disclose the secret, 



ROBERT BURNS. 77 

What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be 1 

A little time 
Will make us wise as you are, and as close." 

" I am such a coward in life, so tired of the service, that I would 
almost at any time, with Milton's Adam, * gladly lay me in my 
mother's lap, and be at peace.' 

" But a wife and children bind me to struggle with the stream, 
till some sudden squall shall overset the silly vessel, or in the listless 
return of years, its own craziness reduce it to a wreck. Farewell 
now to those giddy follies, those varnished vices, which, though 
half-sanctified by the bewitching levity of wit and humour, are at 
best but thriftless idling with the precious current of existence ; 
nay, often poisoning the whole, that, like the plains of Jerico, the 
water is naught and the ground barren, and nothing short of a 
supernaturally-gifted Elisha can ever after heal the evils. 

" Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles me hardest to care, if 
virtue and religion were to be any thing with me but names, was 
what in a few seasons I must have resolved on ; in my present situ- 
ation it was absolutely necessary. Humanity, generosity, honest 
pride of character, justice to my own happiness for after life, so far 
as it could depend (which it surely will a great deal) on internal 
peace ; all these joined their warmest suffrages, their most power- 
ful solicitations, with a rooted attachment, to urge the step I have 
taken. Nor have I any reason on her part to repent it. — I can 
fancy how, but have never seen where, I could have made a better 
choice. Come, then, let me act up to my favourite motto, that 
glorious passage in Young— 

6 On reason build resolve, 
That column of true majesty in man !' •'* 

Under the impulse of these reflectings, Burns immediately en- 
gaged in rebuilding the dwelling-house on his farm, which, in the 
state he found it, was inadequate to the accommodation of his 
family. On this occasion, he himself resumed at times the occupa- 
tion of a labourer, and found neither his strength nor his skill 
impaired. Pleased with surveying the grounds he was about to 
cultivate, and with the rearing of a building that should give shel- 
ter to his wife and children, and as he fondly hoped, to his own 
grey hairs, sentiments of independence buoyed up his mind, pic- 
tures of domestic content and peace rose on his imagination ; and a 
few days passed away, as he himself informs us, the most tranquil, 
if not the happiest, which he had ever experienced.* 

* Animated sentiments of any kind, almost always gave rise in our poet to 
some production of his music. His sentiments on this occasion were in part ex- 
pressed by the following vigorous and characteristic, though not very delicate 
verses. 

I hae a wife o'my ain, 

I'll partake wi' nae-body ; 
I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 

I'll gie cuckold to nae-body. 

I hae a penny to spend, 

There— thanks to nae-body ; 
I hae naething to lend, 

I'll borrow frae nae-body. 



7S LIFE OF 

It is to be lamented that at this critical period of his life, our 
poet was without the society ot his wife and children. A great 
change had taken place in his situation ; his old habits were broken ; 
and the new circumstances in which he was placed were calculated 
to give a new direction to his thoughts and conduct. But his ap- 
plication to the cares and labours of his farm was interrupted by 
several visits to his family in Ayrshire ; and as the distance was too 
great for a single day's journey, he generally spent a night at an 
inn on the road. On such occasions he sometimes fell into com- 
pany, and forgot the resolutions he had formed. In a little while 
temptation assailed him near home. 

His fame naturally drew upon him the attention of his neigh- 
bours, and he soon formed a general acquaintance in the district in 
whioh he lived. The public voice had now pronounced on the 
subject of his talents ; the reception he had met with in Edinburgh 
had given him the currency which fashion bestows ; he had sur- 
mounted the prejudices arising from his humble birth, and he was 
received at the table of the gentlemen of Nithsdale with welcome, 
with kindness, and even with respect. Their social parties too often 
seduced him from his rustic labours and his rustic fare, overthrew 
the unsteady fabric of his resolutions, and inflamed those propen- 
sities which temperance might have weakened, and prudence ulti- 
mately suppressed. It was not long, therefore, before Burns began 
to view his farm with dislike and despondence, if not with disgust. 

Unfortunately he had for several years looked to an office in the 
Excise as a certain means of livelihood, should his other expectations 
fail. As has already been mentioned, he had been recommended to 
the Board of Excise, and had received the instructions necessary for 
such a situation. He now applied to be employed; and by the in- 
terest of Mr. Graham of Fintra, was appointed to be exciseman, or, 
as it is vulgarly called gauger, of the district in which he lived. 
His farm was, after this, in a great measure abandoned to servants, 
while he betook himself to the duties of his new appointment. 

He might indeed still be seen in the spring, directing his plough, 
a labour in which he excelled; or with a white sheet containing 
his seed-corn, slung across his shoulders, striding with measured 
steps along his turned-up furrows, and scattering the grain in the 
earth, but his farm no longer occupied the principal part of his care 
or his thoughts. It was not at Ellisland that he was now in general 
to be found. Mounted on horseback, this high-minded poet was 
pursuing the defaulters of the revenue, among the hills and vales of 
KUhsdale, his roving eye wandering over the charms of nature, 
and muttering his wayward fancies as he moved along. 

"I had an adventure with him in the year 1790," says Mr. Ram- 
Bay of Ochtertyre, in a letter to the editor, " when passing through 
Dumfries-shire, on a tour to the south, with Dr. Steuart of Luss. 

I am nae-body's lord, 

I'll be slave to nae-body; 
I hae a guid braid sword, 

I'll tak dunts frae nae-body. 

I'll be merry and free, 

I'll be sad for nae-body ; 
If nae-body care for me, 

I'll care for nae-body. 



SOBER* fitTRNS, 79 

Seeing him pass quickly near Closeburn, I said to my companion 
' that is Burns.' On coming to the inn, the hostler told us he would 
be back in a few hours to grant permits ; that where he met with 
any thing seizable he was no better than any other gauger, in every 
thing else, he was perfectly a gentleman. After leaving a note to 
be delivered to him on his return, I proceeded to his house, being 
curious to see his Jean, &c. I was much pleased with his uxor Sa- 
Una qualis, and the poet's modest mansion, so unlike the habitation 
of ordinary rustics. In the evening he suddenly bounced in upon 
us, and said as he entered, I come, to use the words of Shakspeare, 
stewed in haste. In fact, he had ridden incredibly fast after receiv- 
ing my note. We fell into conversation directly, and soon got into 
the mare magnum of poetry. He told me that he had now gotten a 
story for a drama, which he was to call Rob Macquecharfs Elshon, 
from a popular story of Robert Bruce being defeated on the water 
of Caern, when the heel of his boot having loosened in his flight, he 
applied to Robert Macquechan to fix it ; who, to make sure, ran his 
awl nine inches up the king's heel. We were now going on at a 

great rate, when Mr. S popped in his head ; which put a stop 

to our discourse, which had become very interesting. Yet in a 
little while it was resumed, and such was the force and versatility 

of the bard's genius, that he made the tears run down Mr. S 's 

cheeks, albeit unused to the poetic strain. * * * From that 
time we met no more, and I was grieved at the reports of him after- 
wards. Poor Burns ! we shall hardly ever see his like again. He 
was, in truth, a sort of comet in literature, irregular in its motions, 
which did not do good proportioned to the blaze of light it dis- 
played." 

In the summer of 1791, two English gentlemen who had before 
met with him in Edinburgh, made a visit to him at Ellisland. On 
calling at the house, they were imformed that he had walked out on 
the banks of the river ; and dismounting from their horses, they pro- 
ceeded in search of him. On a rock that projected into the stream, 
they saw a man employed in angling, of a singular appearance. He 
had a cap made of a fox's skin on his head, a loose great- coat fixed 
round him by a belt, from which depended an enormous highland 
broad-sword. It was Burns. He received them with cordiality, and 
asked them to share his humble dinner — an invitation which they ac- 
cepted. On the table they found boiled beef, with vegetables and 
broth, after the manner of Scotland, of which they partook heartily. 
After dinner, the bard told them ingenuously that he had no wine 
to offer them, nothing better than Highland whiskey, a bottle ©f 
which Mrs. Burns set on the board. He produced at the same time 
his punch-bowl made of Inverary marble, and mixing the spirits 
with water and sugar, filled their glasses, and invited them to drink. 
The travellers were in haste, and besides, the flavour of the whiskey 
to their so uthron palates was scarcely tolerable ; but the generous 
poet offered them his best, and his ardent hospitality they found it 
impossible to resist. Burns was in his happiest mood, and the 
charms of his conversation were altogether fascinating. He ranged 
over a great variety of topics, illuminating whatever he touched. 
He related the tales of his infancy and of his youth; he recited some 
of the gayest and some of the tenderest of his poems ; in the wildest 



80 LIFE OF 

of his strains of mirth, he threw in touches of melancholy, and 
spread around him the electric emotions of his powerful mind. The 
highland whiskey improved in its flavour; the marble bowl was 
again and again emptied and replenished ; the guests of our poet 
forgot the flight of time, and the dictates of prudence : at the hour 
of midmight they lost their way in returning to Dumfries, and could 
scarcely distinguish it when assisted by the morning's dawn. 

Besides his duties in the Excise and his social pleasures, other cir- 
cumstances interfered with the attention of Burns to his farm. He 
engaged in the formation of a society for purchasing and circulating 
books among the farmers of his neighbourhood, of which he under- 
took the management ; and he occupied himself occasionally in 
composing songs for the musical work of Mr. Johnson, then in the 
course of publication. These engagements, useful and honourable 
in themselves, contributed, no doubt, to the abstraction of his thoughts 
from the business of agriculture. 

The consequences may be easily imagined. Notwithstanding the 
uniform prudence and good management of Mrs Burns, and though 
his rent was moderate and reasonable, our poet found it convenient 
if not necessary, to resign his farm to Mr. Miller ; after having oc- 
cupied it three years and a half. His office in the Excise had origin- 
ally produced about fifty pounds per annum. Having acquitted 
himself to the satisfaction of the Board, he had been appointed to 
a new district, the emoluments of which rose to about seventy 
pounds per annum. Hoping to support himself and his family on 
this humble income till promotion should reach him, he disposed of 
his stock and of his crop on Ellisland by public auction, and removed 
to a small house which he had taken in Dumfries, about the end of 
the year 1791. 

Hitherto Burns, though addicted, to excess, in social parties, had 
abstained from the habitual use of strong liquors, and his consti- 
tution had not suffered any permanent injury from the irregulari- 
ties of his conduct. In Dumfries, temptations to the sin that so 
easily beset him, continually presented themselves ; and his irregu- 
larities grew by degrees, into habits. These temptations unhappily 
occurred during his engagements in the business of his office, as 
well as during his hours of relaxation ; and though he clearly fore- 
saw the consequences of yielding to them, his appetites and sensa- 
tions, which could not pervert the dictates of his judgment, finaDy 
triumphed over all the powers of his will. Yet this victory was 
not obtained without many obstinate struggles, and at times, tem- 

Eerance and virtue seemed to have obtained the mastery. Besides 
is engagements in the Excise, and the society into which they 
led, many circumstances contributed to the melancholy fate of 
Burns. His great celebrity made him an object of interest and 
curiosity to strangers, and few persons of cultivated minds passed 
through Dumfries without attempting to see our poet, and to enjoy 
the pleasure of his conversation. As he could not receive them 
under his own humble roof, these interviews passed at the inns of 
the town, and often terminated in those excesses which Burns 
sometimes provoked, and was seldom able to resist. And among 
the inhabitants of Dunfries and its vicinity, there were never 
wanting persons to sjiase his social pleasures ; to l§a$ or accompany 



KOBERT BURNS. 81 

him to the tavern ; to partake in the wildest sallies of his wit ; to 
witness the strength and degradation of his genius. 

Still, however, he cultivated the society of persons of taste and 
respectability, and in their company would impose on himself tha 
restraints of temperance and decorum. Nor was his muse dormant. 
In the four years which he lived in Dumfries, he produced many of 
his beautiful lyrics, though it does not appear that he attempted 
any poem of considerable length. During this time, he made seve- 
ral excursions into the neighbouring country, of one of which, 
through Galloway, an account is preserved in a letter of Mr. Slyme, 
written soon after ; which, as it gives an animated picture of him 
by a correct and masterly hand, we shall present to the reader. 

" I got Burns a grey Highland shelty to ride on. We dined the 
first day, 27th July, 1793, at Glendenwynes of Parton ; a beautiful 
situation on the banks of the Dee. In the evening we walked out, 
and ascended a gentle eminence, from which we had as fine a view 
of Alpine scenery as can well be imagined. A delightful soft even- 
ing showed all its wilder as well as its grander graces. Immediately 
opposite, and within a mile of us ; we saw Airds, a charming roman- 
tic place, where dwelt Low, the author of Mary weep no more for 
me. This was classical ground for Burns. He viewed " the highest 
hill which rises o'er the source of Dee ;" and would have staid till 
" the passing spirit" had appeared, had we not resolved to reach 
Kenmore that night. We arrived as Mr. and Mrs. Gordon were 
sitting down to supper. 

" Here is a genuine baron's seat. The castle, an old building, 
stands on a large natural moat. In front, the river Ken winds for 
several miles through the most fertile and beautiful holm, till it 
expands into a lake twelve miles long, the banks of which, on the 
south, present a fine and soft landscape of green knolls, natural 
woods, and here and there a grey rock. On the north, the aspect is 
great, wild, and, I may say, tremendous. In short, I can scarcely 
conceive a scene more terribly romantic than the Castle of Ken- 
more. Burns thinks so highly of it, that he meditates a description 
of it in poetry. Indeed, I believe he has begun the work. We 
spent three days with Mr. Gordon, whose polished hospitality is of 
an original and endearing kind. Mrs. Gordon's lap-dog, JScho, was 
dead. She would have an epitath for him. Several had been 
made. Burns was asked for one. This was setting Hercules to his 
distaff. He disliked the subject ; but, to please the lady, he would 
try. Here is what he produced : — 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 
Ye jarring, screeching things around, 

Scream your discordant joys ; 
Now half your din of tuneless sound 

"With Echo silent lies. 

"We left Kenmore, and went to Gatehouse. I took him the 
moor- road, where savage and desolate regions extended wide around. 
The sky was sympathetic with the wretchedness of the soil ; it be- 
came lowering and dark. The hollow winds sighed, the lightnings 
d 5 



82 LIFE OF 

gleamed, the thunder rolled. The poet enjoyed the awful scene- 
he spoke not a word, but seemed rapt in meditation. In a little 
while the rain began to fall; it poured in floods upon us. For 
three hours did the wild elements rumble their belly full upon 
our defenceless heads. Oh, oh / 'twas foul. We got utterly wet ; 
and to revenge ourselves, Burns insisted at Gatehouse on our getting 
utterly drunk. 

u From Gatehouse, we went next day to Kirkcudbright, through 
a fine country. But here I must tell you that Burns had got a pair 
of jemmy boots for the journey, which had been thoroughly wet, 
and which had been dried in such a manner that it was not possible 
to get them on again. — The brawney poet tried force, and tore them 
to shreds. A whifling vexation of this sort is more trying to the 
temper than a serious calamity. We were going to Saint Mary's 
Isle, the seat of the Earl of Selkirk, and the forlorn Burns was dis- 
comfited at the thought of his ruined boots. A sick stomach and 
a heart ache, lent their aid, and the man of verse was quite accable. 
I attempted to reason with him. Mercy on us, how he did fume 
and rage ! Nothing could reinstate him in temper. I tried various 
expedients, and at last hit on one that succeeded. I showed him 
the house of • • • • across the bay of Wigton. Against ■ " • 
with whom he was offended, he expectorated his spleen, and regain- 
ed a most agreeable temper. He was in a most epigrammatic hu- 
mour indeed ! He afterwards fell on humbler game. There is one 

whom he does not love. He had a passing blow at 

him. 

"When deceased, to the devil went down, 

Twas nothing wouid serve him but Satan's own crown ; 

Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown you sball wear never, 

I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever. 

u Well, I am to bring you to Kirkcudbright along with our poet, 
without boots. I carried the torn ruins across my saddle in spite of 
his fulminations, and in contempt of appearances ; and what is more, 
Lord Selkirk carried them in his coach to Dumfries. He insisted 
they were worth mending. 

u We reached Kirkcudbright about one o'clock. I had promised 
that we should dine with one of the first men in our country, J. 
Dalzell. But Burns was in a wild and obstreperous humour, and 
swore he would not dine where he should be under the smallest re- 
straint. We prevailed, therefore, on Mr. Dalzell to dine with us in 
the inn, and had a very agreeable party. In the evening we set out 
for St. Mary's Isle. Robert had not absolutely regained the milki- 
ness of good temper, and it occurred once or twice to him, as he 
rode along, that St. Mary's Isle was the seat of a Lord ; yet that 
Lord was not an aristocrate, at least in his sense of the word. We 
arrived about eight o'clock, as the family were at tea and coffee. St. 
Mary's Isle is one of the most delightful places that can, in my 
opinion, be formed by the assemblage of every soft but not tame 
object which constitutes natural and cultivated beauty. But not to 
dwell on its external graces, let me tell you that we found all the 
ladies of the family (as beautiful,) at home, and some strangers : 
and among others, who but Urbani ! The Italian sung us manj 
Scottish songs, accompanied with instrumental music. The twe 



ROBERT BURNS. 83 

young ladies of Selkirk sung also. We had the song of Lord Gre- 
gory, which I asked for, to have an opportunity of calling on Burns 
to recite his ballad to that tune. He did recite it ; and such was 
the effect, that a dead silence ensued. It was such a silence as a 
mind of feeling naturally preserves when it is touched with that 
enthusiasm which banishes every other thought but the contempla- 
tion and indulgence of the sympathy produced. Burns' Lord Gre- 
gory is, in my opinion, a most beautiful and affecting ballad. The 
fastidious critic may perhaps say, some of the sentiments and ima- 
gery are of too elevated a kind for such a style of composition ; for 
instance, " Thou bolt of Heaven that passest by ;" and, "Ye 
mustering thunder," &c. ; but this is a cold-blooded objection, which 
will be said rather than /eft. 

" We enjoyed a most happy evening at Lord Selkirk's, We had, 
in every sense of the word, a feast, in which our minds and our 
senses were equally gratiied. The poet was delighted with his 
company, and acquitted himself to admiration. The lion that had 
raged so violently in the morning, was now as mild and gentle as a 
lamb. Next day we returned to Dumfries, and so ends our pere- 
grination. I told you, that in the midst of the storm, on the wilds 
of Kenmore, Burns was wrapt in meditation. What do you think 
he was about? He was charging the English army, along with 
Bruce, at Bannockburn. He was engaged in the same manner on 
our ride home from St. Mary's Isle, and I did not disturb him. 
Next day he produced me the following address of Bruce to his 
troops, and gave me a copy for Dalzell. 

* Scots wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled,' &c. 

Burns had entertained hopes of promotion in the Excise ; but 
circumstances occurred which retarded their fulfilment, and which 
in his own mind, destroyed all expectation of their ever being ful- 
filled. The extraordinary events which ushered in the revolution 
of France, interested the feelings, and excited the hopes of men in 
every corner of Europe. Prejudice and tyranny seemed about to 
disappear from among men, and the day- star of reason to rise upon 
a benighted world. In the dawn of this beautiful morning, the 
genius of French freedom appeared on our southern horizon with 
the countenance of an angel, but speedily assumed the features of 
a demon, and vanished in a shower of blood. 

Though previously a Jacobite and a cavalier, Burns had shared in 
the original hopes entertained of this astonishing revolution, by ar- 
dent and benevolent minds. The novelty and the hazard of the at- 
tempt meditated by the First, or Constituent Assembly, served ra- 
ther, it is probable, to recommend it to his daring temper ; and the 
unfettered scope proposed to be given to every kind of talents, was 
doubtless gratifying to the feelings of conscious but indignant 
genius. Burns foresaw not the mightv ruin that was to be the im- 
mediate consequence of an enterprise, which, on its commencement, 
promised so much happiness to the human race. And even after 
the career of guilt and of blood commenced, he could not immedi- 
ately, it may be presumed, withdraw his partial gaze from a peo- 
ple who had so lately breathed the sentiments of universal peace 
$nd benignity, or obliterate in his bosom the pictures of hope and 



84 LIFE OF 

of happiness to which those sentiments had given birth. Under 
these impressions, he did not always conduct himself with the cir- 
cumspection and prudence which his dependent situation seemed to 
demand. He engaged indeed in no popular associations, so common 
at the time of which we speak ; but in company he did not conceal 
his opinions of public measures, or of the reforms required in the 
practice of our government; and sometimes, in his social and un- 
guarded moments, he uttered them with a wild and unjustifiable ve- 
hemence. Information of this was given to the Board of Excise, 
with the exaggerations so general in such cases. A superior offieer 
in that department was authorized to inquire into his conduct. 
Burns defended himself in a letter addressed to one of the board, 
written with great independence of spirit, and with more than his 
accustomed eloquence. The officer appointed to inquire into his 
conduct gave a favourable report. His steady friend, Mr. Graham 
of Eintra, interposed his good offices in his behalf; and the impru- 
dent gauger was suffered to retain his situation, but given to under- 
stanp that his promotion was deferred, and must depend on his fu- 
ture behaviour. 

This circumstance made a deep impression on the mind of Burns. 
Fame exaggerated his misconduct, and represented him as actually 
dismissed from his office : and this report induced a gentleman of 
much respectability to propose a subscription in his favour. The 
offer was refused by our poet in a letter of great elevation of senti- 
ment, in which he gives an account of the whole of this transaction 
and defends himself from imputation of disloyal sentiments on the 
one hand, and on the other, from the charge of having made sub- 
missions for the sake of his office, unworthy of his character. 

" The partiality of my countrymen," he observes, " has brought 
me forward as a man of genius, and has given me a character to 
support. In the poet I have avowed manly and independent sen- 
timents, which I hope have been found in the man. Reasons of no 
less weight than the support of a wife and children, have pointed 
out my present occupation as the only eligible line of life within 
my reach. Still my honest fame is my dearest concern, and a thou- 
sand times have 1 trembled at the idea of the degrading epithets 
that malice or misrepresentation may affix to my name. Often in 
blasting anticipation have I listened to some future hackney scrib- 
bler, with the heavy malice of savage stupidity, exultingly assert- 
ing that Burns notwithstanding the fanfaronade of independence 
to be found in his works, and after having been held up to public 
view, and to public estimation, as a man of some genius, yet, quite 
destitute of resources within himself to support his borrowed dig- 
nity, dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and slunk out the rest of 
his insignificant existence in the meanest of pursuits, and among 
the lowest of mankind. 

^ " In your illustrious hands, sir, permit me to lodge my strong 
disavowal and defiance of such slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a 
poor man from his birth, and an exciseman by necessity ; but — I 
will say it ! the sterling of his honest worth, poverty could not de- 
base, and his independent British spirit, oppression might bend, 
but could not subdue." 

It was one of the last acts of his life to copy this letter into his 



KOBEBX 3URNS. 85 

book of manuscripts, accompanied by some additional remarks on 
the same subject. It is not surprising, that at a season of universal 
alarm for the safety of the constitution, the indiscreet expressions 
of a man so powerful as Burns, should have attracted notice. The 
times certainly required extraordinary vigilance in those intrusted 
with the administration of the government, and to insure the safety 
of the constitution was doubtless their first duty. Yet generous 
minds will lament that their measures of precaution should have 
robbed the imagination of our poet of the last prop on which his 
hopes of independence rested, and by embittering his peace, have 
aggravated those excesses which were soon to conduct him to an 
untimely grave. 

Though the vehemence of Burns's temper, increased as it often 
was by stimulating liquors, might lead him into many improper 
and unguarded expressions, there seems no reason to doubt of his 
attachment to our mixed form of government. In his common- 
place book, where he could have no temptation to disguise, are the 
following sentiments. — " AYhatever might be my sentiments of re- 
publics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, I ever abjured the idea. 
A constitution which, in its original principles, experience has 
proved to be every way fitted for our happiness, it would be in- 
sanity to abandon for an untried visionary theory." In conformity 
to these sentiments, when the pressing nature of public affairs 
called in 1795 for a general arming of the people, Burns appeared 
in the ranks of the Dumfries volunteers, and employed his poetical 
talents in stimulating their patriotism ; and at this season of alarm, 
he brought forward the following hymn, worthy of the Grecian 
muse, when Greece was most conspicuous for genius and valour. 

Scene — A Field of Battle — Time of the day, Evening — the wounded 
and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the follezv* 
ing Song. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, 

Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell loves and friendships, ye,, dear tender ties, 

Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 

Go, frighten the coward and slaves ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, 

No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the dull peassnt, he sinks in the dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero— a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in our hands, 

Our king and our country to save— 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands 

O ! who would not rest with the brave ! 

Though by nature of^an athletic form, Barns had in his constitu 
tion the peculiarities and the delicacies that belong to the tempera- 
ment of genius. He was liable, from a very early period, to that 
interruption in the process of digestion, which arises from deep and 
anxious thought, and which is sometimes the effect, and sometimes 
the cause of depression of spirits. Connected with this disorder of 
the stomach, there was a disposition to head-ache, affecting more 



86 MFE OF 

especially the temples and eye-balls, and frequently accompanied 
by violent and irregular movements of the heart. Endowed by 
nature with great sensibility of nerves, Burns was, in his corporeal, 
as well as in his mental system, liable to inordinate impressions ; 
to fever of body as well as of mind. This predisposition to disease, 
which strict temperance in diet, regular exercise, and sound sleep, 
migh have subdued, habits of a different nature strengthened and 
inflamed. Perpetually stimulated by alcohol in one or other of its 
various forms, the inordinate actions of the circulating system be- 
came at length habitual ; the process of nutrition was unable to 
supply the waste, and the powers of life began to fail. Upwards of 
a year before his death, there was an evident decline in our poet's 
personal appearance, and though his appetite continued unimpaired 
he was himself sensible that his constitution was sinking. In his 
moments of thought he reflected with the deepest regret on this 
fatal progress, clearly forseeing the goal towards which he was 
hastening, without the strength of mind necessary to stop, or even 
to slacken his course. His temper now became more irritable and 
gloomy ; he fled from himself into society, often of the lowest kind. 
And in such company, that part of the convivial scene, in which 
wine increases sensibility and excites benevolence, was hurried 
over, to reach the succeeding part, over which uncontrolled passion 
generally presided. He who suffers the pollution of inebriation, 
how shall he escape other pollution ? But let us refrain from the 
mention of errors over which delicacy and humanity draw the veil. 

In the midst of all his wanderings. Burns met nothing in his do- 
mestic circle but gentleness and forgiveness, except in the gnawings 
of his own remorse. He acknowledged his transgressions to the 
wife of his bosom, promised amendment, and again and again re- 
ceived pardon for his offences. But as the strength of his body de- 
cayed, his resolution became feebler, and habit acquired predomi- 
nating strength. 

From October, 1792, to the January following, an accidental com- 
plaint confined him to the house. A few days after he began to go 
abroad, he dined at a tavern, and returned home about three o'clock 
in a very cold morning, benumbed and intoxicated. This was fol- 
lowed by an attack of rheumatism, which confined him about a 
week. His appetite now began to fail ; his hand shook, and his 
voice faltered on any exertion or emotion. His pulse became weaker 
and more rapid, and pain in the larger joints, and in the hands and 
feet, deprived him of the enj oyment of refreshing sleep. Too much 
dejected in his spirits, and too well aware of his real situation to 
entertain hopes of recovery, he was ever musing on the approaching 
desolation of his family, and his spirits sunk into a uniform gloom. 

It was hoped by some of his friends, that if he could live through 
the months of spring, the succeeding season might restore him. But 
they were disappointed. The genial beams of the sun infused no 
vigour into his languid frame ; the summer wind blew upon him, 
but produced no refreshment. About the latter end of June he was 
advised to go into the country, and impatient of medical advice, as 
well as of every species of control, he determined for himself to try 
the effects of bathing in the sea. For this purpose he took up his 



&OBERT BUBNS. 87 

t esidence at Brow, in Annandale, about ten miles east of Dumfries, 
on the shore of the Solway-Frith. 

It happened that at that time a lady with whom he had been 
connected in friendship by the sympathies of kindred genius was 
residing in the immediate neighbourhood. Being informed of his ar- 
rival, she invited him to dinner, andseut her carriage for him to the 
cottage where he lodged, as he was unable to walk. — " I was struck," 
says this lady (in a confidential letter to a friend written soon 
after,) " with his appearance on entering the room. The stamp of 
death was impressed on his features. He seemed already touching 
the brink of eternity. His salutation was ' Well, madam, have you 
any commands for the other world V I replied, that it seemed a 
doubtful case which of us should be there soonest, and that I hoped 
that he would yet live to write my epitaph. (1 was then in a poor 
state of health.) He looked in my face with an air of great kind- 
ness, and expresed his concern at seeing me look so ill, with his 
accustomed sensibility. At table he ate little or nothing, and he 
complained of having entirely lost the tone of his stomach. We 
had a long and serious conversation about his present situation, and 
the approaching termination of all his earthly prospects. He spoke 
of his death without any of the ostentation of philosophy, but with 
firmness as well as feeling — as an event likely to happen very soon, 
and which gave him concern chiefly from leaving his four children 
so young and unprotected, and his wife in so interesting a situation 
—in hourly expectation of lying in of a fifth. He mentioned, with 
seeming pride and satisfaction, the promising genius of his eldest 
son, and the flattering marks of approbation he had received from 
his teachers, and dwelt particularly on his hopes of that boy's 
future conduct and merit. His anxiety for his family seemed to 
hang heavy upon him, and the more perhaps from the reflection 
that he had not done them all the justice he was so well qualified 
to do. Passing from this subject, he showed great concern about 
the care of his literary fame, and particularly the publication of his 
posthumous works. He said he was well aware that his death 
would occasion some noise, and that every scrap of his writing 
would be revived against him to the injury of his future reputa- 
tion : that letters and verses written with unguarded and improper 
freedom, and which he earnestly wished to have buried in oblivion, 
would be handed about by idle vanity or malevolence, when no 
dread of his resentment would restrain them, or prevent the cen- 
sures of shrill-tongued malice, or the insidious sarcasms of envy, 
from pouring forth all their venom to blast his fame. 

" He lamented that he had written many epigrams on persons 
against whom he entertained no enmity, and whose characters he 
should be sorry to wound; and many indifferent poetical pieces, 
which he feared would now with all their imperfections on their 
head, be thrust upon the world. On this account he deeply regret- 
ted having deferred to put his papers into a state of arrangement, 
as he was now quite incapable of the exertion." — The lady goes on 
to mention many other topics of a private nature on which he 
spoke. — "The conversation," she adds, "was kept up with great 
evenness and animation on his side. I had seldom seen his mind 
greater or more collected, There was frequently a considerable 



88 LIFE OF 

degree of vivacity in his sallies, and they would probably have had 
a greater share, had not the concern and dejection I could not dis- 
guise, damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed not unwilling to 
indulge. 

* We parted about sun-set on the evening of that day (the 5th of 
July, 17^6;) the next day I saw him again, and we parted to meet 
nomore!" 

At first, Burns imagined bathing in the sea had been of benefit to 
him : the pains in his limbs were relieved ; but this was immediate- 
ly followed by a new attack of fever. When brought back to his 
own house in Dumfries, on the 18th of July, he was no longer able 
to stand upright. At this time a tremor pervaded his frame ; his 
tongue was parched, and his mind sunk into delirium, when not 
roused by conversation. On the second and third day the fever 
increased, and his strength diminished. On the fourth, the suffer- 
ings of this great, but ill-fated genius were terminated, and a life 
was closed in which virtue and passion had been at perpetual vari- 
ance.* 

The death of Burns made a strong and general impression on all 
who had interested themselves in his character, and especially on 
the inhabitants of the town and county in which he had spent the 
latter years of his life. Flagrant as his follies and errors had been, 
they had not deprived him of the respect and regard entertained for 
the extraordinary powers of his genius, and the generous qualities 
of his heart. The Gentlemen- Volunteers of Dumfries determined 
to bury their illustrious associate with military honours, and every 
preparation was made to render this last service solemn and impres- 
sive. The Fencible Infantry of Angus-shire, and the regiment of 
cavalry of the Cinque Ports, at that time quartered in Dumfries, 
offered their assistance on this occasion ; the principal inhabitants 
of the town and neighbourhood determined to walk in the funeral 
procession ; and a vast concourse of persons assembled, some of them 
from a considerable distance, to witness the obsequies of the Scot- 
tish Bard. On the evening of the 25th of July, the remains of 
Burns were removed from his house to the Town-Hall, and the 
funeral took place on the succeeding day. A party of the volun- 
teers, selected to perform the military duty in the church-yard, 
stationed themselves in the front of the procession, with their arms 
reversed ; the main body of the corps surrounded and supported 
the coffin, on which were placed the hat and sword of their friend 
and fellow- soldier ; the numerous body of attendants ranged them- 
selves in the rear; while the Fencible regiments of infantry and 
cavalry lined the streets from the Town-Hall to the burial-ground 
in the Southern church-yard, a distance of more than half a mile. 
The whole procession moved forward to that sublime and affecting 
strain of music, the Dead March in Saul ; and three vollies fired 
over his grave marked the return of Burns to his parent earth ! 
The spectacle was in a high degree grand and solemn, and accorded 
with the general sentiments of sympathy and sorrow which the oc- 
casion had called forth. 

It was an affecting circumstance, that, on the morning of the day 

* The particulars respecting the illness and death of Burns were obligingly fur- 
nished by Dr. Maxwell the physician who attended him. 



ROBERT BURNS. 39 

of her husband's funeral, Mrs. Burns was undergoing the pains of 
labour, and that during the solemn service we have just been de- 
scribing, the posthumous son of our poet was born. This infant boy, 
who received the name of Maxwell, was not destined to a long life. 
He has already become an inhabitant of the same grave with his 
celebrated father. The four other children of our poet, all sons (the 
eldest at that time about ten years of age) yet survive, and give every 
promise of prudence and virtue that can be expected from their tender 
years. They remain under the care of their affectionate mother in 
Dumfries, and are enjoying the means of education which the ex- 
cellent schools of that town afford; the teachers of which, in their 
conduct to the children of Burns, do themselves great honour. On 
this occasion, the name of Mr. Whyte deserves to be particularly 
mentioned, himself a poet as well as a man of science. 

Burns died in great poverty ; but the independence of his spirit, 
and the exemplary prudence of his wife, had preserved him from 
debt. He had received from his poems a clear profit of about nine 
hundred pounds. Of this sum, the part expended on his library 
(which was far from extensive) and in the humble furniture of his 
house, remained ; and obligations were found for two hundred 
pounds advanced by him to the assistance of those to whom he was 
united by the ties of blood, and still more by those of esteem and 
affection. When it is considered, that his expenses in Edinburgh, 
and on his various journeys, could not be inconsiderable ; that his 
agricultural undertaking was unsuccessful ; that his income from 
the Excise was for some time as low as fifty, and never rose to above 
seventy pounds a-year; that his family was large, and his spirit 
liberal — no one will be surprised that his circumstances were so 
poor, or that, as his health decayed, his proud and feeling heart sunk 
under the secret consciousness of indigence, and the apprehension 
of absolute want. Yet poverty never bent the spirit of Burns to 
any pecuniary meanness. Neither chicanery nor sordidness ever 
appeared in his conduct. He carried his disregard of money to a 
blameable excess. Even in the midst of distress he bore himself 
loftily to the world, and received with a jealous reluctance every 
offer of friendly assistance. His printed poems had procured him 
great celebrity, and a just and fair recompense for the latter off- 
springs of his pen might have produced him considerable emolu- 
ment. In the year 1765, the Editor of a London newspaper, high 
in its character for literature, and independence of sentiment, made 
a proposal to him that he should furnish them, once a- week, with 
an article for their poetical department, and receive from them a 
recompense of fifty-two guineas per annum; an offer which the 
pride of genius disdained to accept. Yet he had for several years 
furnished, and was at that time furnishing the Museum of Johnson 
with his beautiful lyrics, without fee or reward, and was obstinately 
refusing all recompense for his assistance to the greater work of Mr. 
Thomson, which the justice and generosity of that gentleman was 
pressing upon him. 

The sense of his poverty, and of the approaching distress of his 
infant family, pressed heavily on Burns as he lay on the bed of 
death. Yet he alluded to his indigence, at times, with something 
approaching to his wonted getfety,— >" WJxat business," said he to 



90 



htm Ge 



Dr. Maxwell, who attended him with the utmost zeal, " has a phy- 
sician to waste his time on me 1 I am a poor pigeon, not worth 
plucking. Alas ! I have not feathers enough to carry me to my 
grave." And when his reason was lost in delirium, his ideas ran in 
the same melancholy train. The horrors of a jail were still present 
to his troubled imagination, and produced the most affecting excla- 
mations. 

As for some months previous to his death he had been incapable 
of the duties of his office, Burns had imagined that his salary was 
reduced one half, as is usual in such cases. The Board, however, to 
their honour, continued his lull emoluments ; and Mr. Graham of 
Pintra, hearing of his illness, though unacquainted with its dangerous 
nature, made an offer of his assistance towards procuring him the 
means of preserving his health. — Whatever might be the faults of 
Burns, ingratitude was not of the number. — Amongst his manu- 
scripts, various proofs are found of the sense he entertained of Mr. 
Graham's friendship, which delicacy towards that gentleman has in- 
duced us to suppress ; and on the last occasion there is no doubt 
that his heart overflowed towards him, though he had no longer the 
power of expressing his feelings.* 

On the death of Burns, the inhabitants of Dumfries and its 
neighbourhood opened a subscription for the support of his wife 
and family ; and Mr. Miller, Mr. M'Murdo, Dr. Maxwell, and Mr. 
Syme, gentlemen of the first respectability, became trustees for the 
application of the money to its proper objects. The subscription 
was extended to other parts of Scotland, and of England also, par- 
ticularly London and Liverpool. By this means a sum was raised 
amounting to seven hundred pounds; and thus the widow and 
children were rescued from immediate distress, and the most me- 
lancholy of the forebodings of Burns happily disappointed. It is 
true, this sum, though equal to their present support, is insufficient 
to secure them from future penury. Their hope in regard to futu- 
rity depends on the favourable reception of those volumes from the 
public at large, in the promoting of which the candour and huma- 
nity of the reader may induce him to lend his assistance. 

Burns, as has already been mentioned, was nearly five feet ten 
inches in height, and of a form that indicated agility as well as 
strength. His well-raised forehead, shaded with black curling hair, 
indicated extensive capacity. His eyes were large, dark, full of 
ardour and intelligence. His face was well formed ; and his coun- 
tenance uncommonly interesting and expressive. His mode of 
dressing, which was often slovenly, and a certain fulness and bend 
in his shoulders, characteristic of his original profession, disguised 
in some degree the natural symmetry and elegance of his form. The 
external appearance of Burns was most strikingly indicative of the 
character of his mind. On a first view, his physiognomy had a 
certain air of coarseness, mingled, however, with an expression of 
deep penetration, and of calm thoughtfulness approaching to me- 
lancholy. There appeared in his first manner and address, perfect 
ease and self-possession, but a stern and almost supercilious eleva- 

* The letter of Mr. Graham alluded to above, is dated on the 13th of July, and 
probably arrived on the 15th. Burns became delirious on the 17th or 18th, and 
died on the 2 1st. 



KOBB&T BURNS. 91 

tion, not, indeed, incompatible with openness and affability, which, 
hewever, bespoke a mind conscious of superior talents.— Strangers 
that supposed themselves approaching an Ayrshire peasant, who 
could make rhymes, and to whom their notice was an honour, 
found themselves speedily overawed by the presence of a man who 
bore himself with dignity, and who possessed a singular power of 
correcting forwardness and of repelling intrusion. But though 
jealous of the respect due to himself, Burns never enforced it where 
he saw it was willingly paid ; and, though inaccessible to the ap- 
proaches of pride, he was open to every advance of kindness and 
of benevolence. His dark and haughty countenance easily relaxed 
into a look of good will, of pity, or of tenderness ; and, as the vari- 
ous emotions succeeded each other in his mind, assumed with equal 
ease the expression of the broadest humour, of the most extrava- 
gant mirth, of the deepest melancholy, or of the most sublime emo- 
tion. The tones of his voice happily corresponded with the ex- 
pression of his features, and with the feelings of his mind. When 
to these endowments are added a rapid and distinct apprehension, 
a most powerful understanding, and a happy command of language 
—of strength as well as brilliancy of expression — we shall be able 
to account for the extraordinary attractions of his conversation — 
for the sorcery which in his social parties he seemed to exert on all 
around him. In the company of women this sorcery was more es- 
pecially apparent. Their presence charmed the fiend of melan- 
choly in his bosom, and awoke his happiest feelings ; it excited the 
powers of his fancy, as well as the tenderness of his heart ; and, by 
restraining the vehemence and exuberance of his language, at times 
gave to his manners the impression of taste, and even of elegance, 
which in the company of men they seldom possessed. This influ- 
ence was doubtless reciprocal. A Scottish Lady, accustomed to the 
best society, declared with characteristic naivete, that no man's 
conversation ever carried her so completely off her feet as that of 
Burns ; and an English Lady, familiarly acquainted with several of 
the most distinguished characters of the present times, assured the 
editor, that in the happiest of his social hours, there was a charm 
about Burns which she had never seen equalled. The charm arose 
not more from the power than the versatility of his genius. No 
languor could be felt in the society of a man who passed at pleasure 
from grave to gay, from the ludicrous to the pathetic, from the sim- 
ple to the sublime; who wielded all his faculties with equal 
strength and ease, and never failed to impress the offspring of his 
fancy with the stamp of his understanding. 

This, indeed, is to represent Burns in his happiest phasis. In 
large and mixed parties, he was often silent and dark, sometimes 
fierce and overbearing ; he was jealous of the proud man's scorn, 
jealous to an extreme of the insolence of wealth, and prone to 
avenge, even on its innocent possessor, the partiality of fortune. 
By nature kind, brave, sincere, and in a singular degree compas- 
sionate, he was on the other hand proud, irascible, and vindictive. 
His virtues and failings had their origin in the extraordinary sen- 
sibility of his mind, and equally partook in the chills and glows of 
sentiment. His friendships were liable to interruption from jea- 
lousy or disgust, and his enmities died away under the influence of 



92 LIFE OF 

pity or self-accusation. His understanding was equal to the other 
powers of his mind, and his deliberate opinions were singularly can- 
did and just ; but, like other men of great and irregular genius, the 
opinions which he delivered in conversation were often the offspring 
of temporary feelings, and widely different from the calm decisions 
of his judgment. This was not merely true respecting the charac- 
ters of others, but in regard to some of the most important points 
of human speculation. 

On no subject did he give a more striking proof of the strength 
of his understanding, than in the correct estimate he formed of 
himself. He knew hi3 own failings; he predicted their conse- 
quence ; the melancholy foreboding was never long absent from his 
mind ; yet his passions carried him down the stream of error, and 
swept him over the precipice he saw directly in his course. The 
fatal defect in his character lay in the comparative weakness of his 
volition, that superior faculty of the mind, which governing the 
conduct according to the dictates of the understanding, alone enti« 
ties it to be denominated rational ; which is the parent of fortitude, 
patience, and self-denial ; which, by regulating and combining hu- 
man exertions, may be said to have effected all that is great in the 
works of man, in literature, in science, or on the face of nature.— 
The occupations of a poet are not calculated to strengthen the go- 
verning powers of the mind, or to weaken that sensibility which 
requires perpetual control, since it gives birth to the vehemence of 
passion, as well as to the higher powers of imagination. Unfortu- 
nately the favourite occupations of genius are calculated to increase 
all its peculiarities ; to nourish that lofty pride, which disdains the 
littleness of prudence, and the restrictions of order ; and, by in- 
dulgence, to increase that sensibility, which, in the present form of 
our existence, is scarcely compatible with peace or happiness, even 
when accompanied with the choicest gifts of fortune. 

It is observed by one who was a friend and associate of Burns, 
and who has contemplated and explained the system of animated 
nature, that no sentient being, with mental powers greater than 
those of men, could possibly live and be happy in this world. — " If 
such a being really existed," continued he, " his misery would be 
extreme. With senses more delicate and refined ; with perceptions 
more acute and penetrating ; with a taste so exquisite that the ob- 
jects around him would by no means gratify it ; obliged to feed on 
nourishment too gross for his frame ; he must be born only to be 
miserable ; and the continuation of his existence would be utterly 
impossible. Even in our present condition, the sameness and the 
insipidity of objects and pursuits, the futility of pleasure, and the 
infinite sources of excruciating pain, are supported with great diffi- 
culty by cultivated and refined minds. Increase our sensibilities, 
continue the same objects and situation, and no man could bear to 
live." 

Thus it appears, that our powers of sensation, as well as our other 
powers, are adapted to the scene of our existence ; that they are 
limited in mercy, as well as in wisdom. 

The speculations of Mr. Smellie are not to be considered as the 
dreams of a theorist ; they were probably founded on sad experi- 
ence. The being he supposes, "with senses more delicate and re* 



ROBEM BURNS. 93 

fined, with perceptions more acute and penetrating," is to be found 
in real life. He is the temperament of genius, and perhaps a poet. 
Is there, then, no remedy for this inordinate sensibility? Are 
there no means by which the happiness of one so constituted by na- 
ture may be consulted 1 Perhaps it will be found, that regular and 
constant occupation, irksome though it may first be, is the true re- 
medy. Occupation in which the powers of the understanding are 
exercised, will diminish the force of external impressions, and keep 
the imagination under restraint. 

That the bent of every man's mind should be followed in his edu- 
cation and in his destination in life, is a maxim which has been 
often repeated, but which cannot be admitted without many restric- 
tions. It may be generally true when applied to weak minds, 
which, being capable of little, must be encouraged and strengthened 
in the feeble impulses by which that little is produced. But where 
indulgent nature has betowed her gifts with a liberal hand, the 
very reverse of this maxim ought frequently to be the rule of con- 
duct. In minds of a higher order, the object of instruction and of 
discipline is very often to restrain rather than to impel ; to curb 
the impulses of imagination so that the passions also may be kept 
under control. Hence the advantages, even in a moral point of 
view, of studies of a severe nature, which, while they inform the 
understanding, employ the volition, that regulating power of the 
mind, which like all our other faculties, is strengthened by exercise, 
and on the superiority of which, virtue, happiness, and honourable 
fame, are wholly dependent. Hence also the advantage of regular 
and constant application, which aids the voluntary power by the 
production of habits so necessary to the support of order and virtue, 
and so difficult to be formed in the temperament of genius. 

The man who is so endowed and so regulated, may pursue his course 
with confidence in almost any of the various walks of life which 
choice or accident shall open to him ; and provided he employs the 
talents he has cultivated, may hope for such imperfect happi- 
ness, and such limited success, as are reasonably expected from hu- 
man exertions. 

The pre-eminence among men, which procures personal respect, 
and which terminates in lasting reputation, is seldom or never ob- 
tained by the excellence of a single faculty of mind. Experience 
teaches us, that it has been acquired by those only who have pos- 
sessed the comprehension and the energy of general talents, and 
who have regulated their application, in the line which choice, or 
perhaps accident may have determined, by the dictates of their 
judgment. Imagination is supposed, and with justice, to be the 
leading faculty of the poet. But what poet has stood the test of 
time by the force of this single faculty? Who does not see that 
Homer and Shakspeare excelled the rest of their species in under- 
standing as well as in imagination ? that they were pre-eminent in 
the highest species of knowledge— the knowledge of the nature and 
character of man ] On the other hand, the talent of ratiocination 
is more especially requisite to the orator ; but no man ever attained 
the palm of oratory, even by the highest exercise in this single 
talent, who does not perceive that Demosthenes and Cicero were not 
more happy in their addresses to the reason, than in their appeals to 



94 ^ife os 1 

the passions 1 they knew that to excite, to agitate, and to delight, 
are among the most potent arts of persuasion ; and they enforced 
their impression on the understanding, by their command of all 
the sympathies of the heart. These observations might be extended 
to other walks of life. He who has the faculties fitted to excel in 
poetry, has the faculties which, duly governed and differently 
directed, might lead to pre-eminence in other, and as far as respects 
himself, perhaps in happier destinations. The talents necessary to 
the construction of an Iliad, under discipline and application, 
might have led armies to victory, or kingdoms to prosperity : might 
have wielded the thunder of eloquence, or discovered and enlarged 
the sciences that constitute the power, and improve the condition of 
our species. 

Such talents are, indeed, rare among the productions of nature, 
and occasions of bringing them into full exertion are rarer still. 
But safe and salutary occupations may be found for men of genius 
in every direction, while the useful and ornamental arts remain to 
be cultivated, while the sciences remain to be studied and to be ex- 
tended, and the principles of science to be applied to the correction 
and improvement of art. In the temperament of sensibility, which 
is in truth the temperament of general talents, the principal object 
of discipline and instruction is, as has already been mentioned, to 
strengthen the self-command ; and this may be promoted by the di- 
rection of the studies, more effectually perhaps than has been gene- 
rally understood. 
_ If these observations be founded in truth, they may lead to prac- 
tical consequences of some importance. It ha3 been too mtfch the 
custom to consider the possession of poetical talents as excluding 
the possibility of application to the severer branches of study, and 
in some degree incapacitating the possessor from attaining those 
habits, and from bestowing that attention, which are necessary to 
success in the details of business, and in the engagements of active 
life. It has been common for persons conscious of such talents, to 
look with a sort of disdain on other kinds of intellectual excellence, 
and to consider themselves as in some degree absolved from those 
rules of prudence by which humbler minds are restricted. They 
are too much disposed to abandon themselves to their own sensa- 
tions, and to suffer life to pass away without any regular exertion or 
settled purpose. 

But though men of genius are generally prone to indolence, with 
them indolence and unhappiness are in a more special way allied. 
The unbidden splendours of imagination may indeed at times irra- 
diate the gloom which inactivity produces; but such visions, 
though bright, are transient, and serve to cast the realities of life 
into deeper shade. In bestowing great talents, Nature seems very 
generally to have imposed on the possessor the necessity of exer- 
tion, if he would escape wretchedness. Better for him than sloth, 
toils the most painful, or adventures the most hazardous. Happier 
to him than idleness, were the condition of the peasant, earning 
with incessant labour his scanty food; or that of the sailor, though 
hanging on the yard-arm, and wrestling with the hurricane. 

These observations might be amply illustrated by the biography 
of men of genius of «very denomination, and more especially by 



ftOtffcRT gtiRNS. 95 

the biography of the poets. Of this last description of men, few 
seem to have enjoyed the usual portion of happiness that falls to 
the lot of humanity, those excepted who have cultivated poetry as 
an elegant amusement in the hours of relaxation from other occu- 
pations, or the small number who have engaged with success in the 
greater or more arduous attempts of the muse, in which all the fa- 
culties of the mind have been fully and permanently employed. 
Even taste, virtue, and comparative independence, do not seem ca- 
pable of betowing, on men of genius, peace and tranquillity, with- 
out such occupation as may give regular and healthful exercise to 
the faculties of body and mind. The amiable Shenstone has left 
us the records of his imprudence, of his indolence, and of his un- 
happiness, amidst the shades of the Leasowes ;* and the virtues, 
the learning, and the genius of Gray, equal to the loftiest attempt 
of the epic muse, failed to procure him in the academic bowers of 
Cambridge, the tranquillity and that respect which less fastidious- 
ness of taste, and greater constancy and vigour of exertion, would 
have doubtless obtained. 

It is more necessary that men of genius should be aware of the 
importance of self-command, and of exertion, because their indo- 
lence is peculiarly exposed, not merely to unhappiness, but to dis- 
eare of mind, and to errors of conduct, which are generally fatal. 
This interesting subject deserves a particular investigation : but we 
must content ourselves with one or two cursory remarks. Belief is 
sometimes sought for the melancholy of indolence in practices, 
which for a time soothe and gratify the sensations, but which in 
the end involve the sufferer in darker gloom. To command the ex- 
ternal circumstances by which happiness is affected, it is not in 
human power : but there are various substances in nature which 
operate on the system of the nerves, so as to give a fictitious gaiety 
to the ideas of imagination, and to alter the effect of the external 
impressions which we receive. Opium is chiefly employed for this 
purpose by the disciples of Mahomet, and the inhabitants of Asia ; 
but alcohol, the principle of intoxication in vinous and spiritous 
liquors, is preferred in Europe, and is universally used in the Chris- 
tian world. Under the various wounds to which indolent sensibility 
is exposed, and under the gloomy apprehensions respecting futurity 
to which it is so often a prey, how strong is the temptation to have 
recourse to an antidote by which the pain of these wounds is sus- 
pended by which the heart is exhilerated, ideas of hope and happi- 
ness are excited in the mind, add the forms of external nature clo« 
thed hith new beauty ?— 

Elysium opens round, 
A pleasing frenzy buoys the lighten'd soul, 
And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting care ; 
And what was difficult, and what was dire, 
Yields to your prowess, and superior stars : 
The happiest of you all that e'er were mad, 
Or are, or shall be, could this folly last. 
But soon your heaven is gone ; a heavier gloom 
Shut o'er your head — — 



Morning comes ; your cares return 



With tenfold rage. An anxious stomach well 
* See his letters, whjcjx, as ft display of th$ ©ffwtS of poettCftl i<Jtenesi> &r 
WgMy ipstructive. 



96 LIFE 61? 

May be endured : so may thethrobing head : 
But such a dim delirium, such a dream 
Involves you ! such a dastardly despair 
Unmans your soul, as madd'ning Pentheus felt, 
When baited round Cithasron's cruel sides, 
He saw two suns and double Thebes ascend. 

Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health, b. iv. 1. 168. 

Such are the pleasures and the pains of intoxication, as they oc 
cur in the temperament of sensibility, described by a genuine poet, 
with a degree of truth and energy which nothing but experience 
could have dictated. There are, indeed, some {individuals of this 
temperament on whom wine produces no cheering influence. On 
some, even in very moderate quantities, its effects are painfully 
irritating ; in large doses it excites dark and melancholy ideas ; 
and in doses still larger, the fierceness of insanity itself. Such men 
are happily exempted from a temptation, to which experiences 
teaches us the finest dispositions often yield, and the influence of 
which, when strengthened by habit, it is a humiliating truth, that 
the most powerful minds have not been able to resist. 

It is the more necessary for men of genius to be on their guard 
against the habitual use of wine, because it is apt to steal on them 
insensibly ; and because the temptation to excess usually presents 
itself to them in their social hours, when they are alive only to 
warm and generous emotions, and when prudence and moderation 
are often contemned as selfishness and timidity. 

It is more necessary for them to guard against excess in the use 
of wine, because on them its effects are physically and morally, in 
an especial manner injurious. In proportion to its stimulating in- 
fluence on the system (on which the pleasurable sensations depend,) 
is the debility that ensues ; a debility that destroys digestion, and 
terminates in habitual fever, dropsy, jaundice, paralysis, or insanity. 
As the strength of the body decays, the volition fails ; in propor- 
tion as the sensations are soothed and gratified, the sensibility 
increases ; and morbid sensibility is the parent of indolence, be- 
cause, while it impairs the regulating power of the mind, it exag- 
gerates all the obstacles to exertion. Activity, perseverance, and 
self-command, become more and more difficult, and the great pur- 
poses, of utility, patriotism, or of honourable ambition, which had 
occupied the imagination, die away in fruitless resolutions, or in 
feeble efforts. 

To apply these observations to the subject of our memoirs, would 
be a useless as well as a painful task. It is, indeed, a duty we owe 
to the living, not to allow our admiration of great genius, or even 
our pity for its unhappy destiny, to conceal or disguise its errors. 
But there are sentiments of respect, and even of tenderness, with 
which this duty should be performed ; there is an awful sanctity 
which invests the mansions of the dead ; and let those who moralize 
over the graves of their contemporaries, reflect with humility one 
their own errors, nor forget how soon they may themselves require 
the candour and the sympathy they are called upon to bestow. 

Soon after the death of Burns, the following article appeared in 
the Dumfries Journal, from which it is copied into the Edinburgh 
newspapers, and into various other periodical publications. It is 



ROBERT BURN*. 97 

from the elegant pen of a lady already alluded to in the course of 
these memoirs, whose exertions for the family of our bard, in the 
circles of literature and fashion in which she moves, have done her 
so much honour. 

" It is not probable that the late mournful event which is like- 
ly to be felt severely in the literary world, as well as in the 
circle of private friendship which surrounded our admired poet, 
should be unattended with the usual profusion of posthumous 
anecdotes, memoirs, &c. that commonly spring up at the death of 
every rare and celebrated personage. I shall not attempt to enlist 
with the numerous corps of biographers, who, it is probable may 
without possessing his genius, arrogate to themselves the privilege of 
criticising the character or writings of Mr. Burns. 'The inspiring 
mantle* thrown over him by that tutelarly muse who first found 
him, like the prophet Elisha, ' at his plough' has been the portion 
of few, may be the portion of fewer still ; and if it is true that men 
of genius have a claim in their literary capacities to the legal right 
of the British citizen in a court of justice, that of being tried only 
by his peers, (I borrow here an expression I have frequently heard 
Burns himself make use of,) God forbid I should, any more than the 
generality of other people, assume the flattering and peculiar pri- 
vilege of sitting upon his jury. But the intimacy of our acquaint- 
ance for several years past, may perhaps justify my presenting to 
the public a few of those ideas and observations I have had the op- 
portunity of forming, and which, to the day that closed for ever the 
scene of his happy qualities and of his errors, I have never had the 
smallest cause to deviate in, or to recall. 

" It will be the misfortune of Burns' reputation, in the records 
of literature, not only to future generations and to foreign countries, 
but even with his native Scotland and a number of his con- 
temporaries, that he has been regarded as a poet, and nothing but 
a poet. It must not be supposed that I consider this title as a trivial 
one ; no person can be more penetrated with the respect due to 
the wreath bestowed by the muses than myself; and much certainly 
is due to the merit of a self taught bard, deprived of the advantages of 
a classical education, and the intercourse of minds congenial to his 
own, till that period of life, when his native fire, had already 
blazed forth in all its wild graces of genuine simplicity and ener- 
getic eloquence of sentiment. But the fact is, that even when 
all his honours are yielded to him, Burns will perhaps be found to 
move in a sphere less splendid, less dignified, and, even in his own 
pastoral style, less attractive, than several other writers have done; 
and the poetry was (I appeal to all who have had the advantage of 
being personally acquainted with him) actually not his forte. If 
others have climbed more successfully to the heights of Parnassus, 
none certainly ever out-shone Burns in the charms— the sorcery I 
would almost call it, of fascinating conversation ; the spontaneous 
eloquence of social argument, or the unstudied poignancy of 
brilliant repartee. His personal endowments were perfectly corre- 
spondent with the qualifications of his mind. His form was manly ; 
his action energy itself; devoid, in a great measure, however, of those 
^graces of that polish, acquired only in the refinement of societies, 



98 LIFE 01 

where in early life he had not the opportunity to mix ; but where 
such was the irresistible power of attraction that encircled 
him, though his appearance and manners were always peculiar, 
ho never failed to delight and to excel. His figure certainly 
bore the authentic impress of his birth and original station 
in life; it seemed rather moulded by nature for the rough 
exercise of agriculture, than the gentler cultivation of the belles 
Litres. His features were stamped with the hardy character of 
independence, and the firmness of conscious, though not arrogant 
pre eminence, 1 believe no man was ever gifted with a larger por- 
tion of the vivida vis animi : the animated expressions of his coun- 
tenance were almost peculiar to himself. The rapid lightnings of 
his eye were always the harbingers of some flash of genius, whe- 
ther they darted the fiery glances of insulted and indignant supe- 
riority, or beamed with the impassioned sentiment of -fervent and 
impetuous affections. His voice alone could improve upon the magic 
of his eye ; sonorous, replete with the finest modulations, it alter- 
nately captivated the ear with the melody of poetic numbers, the 
perspicuity of nervous reasoning, or the ardent sallies of enthusiastic 
patriotism. The keeness of satire was, (I am almost at a loss whe- 
ther to say his forte or his foible;) for though nature had endowed him 
with a portion of the most pointed excellence in that ' perilous gift/ 
he suffered it too often to be the vehicle of personal, and sometimes 
unfounded animosities. It was not only that sportiveness of hu- 
mour, that * unwary pleasantry/ which Sterne has described to us 
with touches so conciliatory; but the darts of ridicule were fre- 
quently directed as the caprice of the instant suggested, or the al- 
tercations of parties or of persons happened to kindle the restlessness 
of his spirit into interest or aversion. This was not, however, unex- 
ceptionably the case, his wit (which is no unusual matter indeed) 
had always the start of his judgment, and would lead him to the 
indulgence of raillery uniformly acute, but often unaccompanied by 
the least desire to wound. The suppression of an arch and full 
pointed Ion mot, from the dread of injuring its object, the sage of 
Zurich very properly classes as a virtue * only to be sought for in 
the calendar of saints;' if so, Burns must not Ije dealt with uneon- 
scientiously for being rather deficient in it. He paid the forfeit of 
his talents as dearly as any one could do. ' 'Twas no extravagant 
arithmetic to say of him, as of Yorick, that for every ten jokes he 
got a hundred enemies ;' and much allowance should be made by a 
candid mind for the spenetic warmth of a spirit ' which distress 
had often spited with the world/ and which, unbounded in its in- 
tellectual sallies and pursuits, continually experienced the curbs 
imposed by the waywardness of his fortune. The vivacity of hi3 
wishes and temper was indeed checked by constant disappoint- 
ments, which sat heavy on a heart that acknowledged the ruling 

Ion of independence, without having ever been placed beyond 
the grasp of penury. His soul was never languid or inactive, and 
his genius was extinguished only with the last sparks of retreating 
life. His passions rendered him, according as they disclosed them- 
selves in affection or antipathy, the object of enthusiastic attach- 

ifc, or of decided enmity; for be possessed none of that negative' 
insipidity of charaofpr, whose love m'ght be regarded with indif- 



i 



ROBERT BURNS, 99 

terence, or whose resentment could be considered with contempt. 
In this it should seem the temper of his companions took the tinc- 
ture from his own ; for he acknowledged in the universe but two 
classes of objects, those of adoration the most fervent, or of aversion 
the most uncontrollable ; and it has been frequently asserted of 
him, that unsusceptible of indifference, often hating where he ought 
to have despised, he alternately opened his heart, and poured forth 
all the treasures of his understanding to such as were incapable of 
appreciating the homage, and elevated to the privileges of an ad- 
versary, some who were unqualified in talents, or by nature, for the 
honour of a contest so distinguished. 

" It is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson professed to t love a 
good hater,' — a temperament that had singularly adapted him to 
cherish a prepossession in favour of our bard, who perhaps fell little 
short even of the surly Doctor in this qualification, as long as the 
disposition to ill-will continued ; but the fervour of his passions 
was fortunately tempered by their versatility. He was seldom, 
never indeed implacable in his resentments, and sometimes, it has 
been alleged, not inviolably steady in his engagements of friendship. 
Much indeed has been said of his inconstancy and caprices : but I 
am inclined to believe, they originated less irom a levity of senti- 
ment, than from an impetuosity of feeling, that rendered him prompt 
to take umbrage ; and his sensations of pique, where he had fancied 
he had discovered the traces of unkindness, scorn or neglect, took 
their measure of asperity from the overflowings of the opposite sen- 
timent which preceded them, and which seldom failed to regain its 
ascendency in his bosom on the return of calmer reflections. He 
was candid and manly in the avowal of his errors, and Ms avowal 
was a reparation. His native fiarte never forsaking him a moment, 
the value of a frank acknowledgment was enhanced tenfold towards 
a generous mind, from its. never being attended with servility. 
His mind, organized only for the stronger and more acute operation 
of the passions, was impracticable to the efforts of superciliousness 
that would have depressed it into humility, and equally superior 
to the encroachments of venal suggestions that might have led him 
into the mazes of hypocrisy. 

"It has been observed, that he was far from averse to the incense 
of flattery, and could receive it tempered with less delicacy than 
might have been expected, as he seldom transgressed in that way 
himself; where he paid a compliment, it might indeed claim the 
power of intoxication, as approbation from him was always an 
honest tribute from the warmth and sincerity of his heart. It has 
been sometimes represented by those who it should seem had a view 
to detract from, though they could not hope wholly to obscure that 
native brilliancy, which the power of this extraordinary man had 
invariably bestowed on every thing that came from his lips or pen, 
that the history of the Ayrshire ploughboy was an ingenious fiction, 
fabricated for the purpose of obtaining the interests of the great, 
and enhancing the merits of what in reality required no foil. The 
Cotter's Saturday Xight, Tarn o' Shanter, and the Mountain Daisy, 
besides a number of later productions, where the maturity of his 
genius will be readily traced, and which will be given the public 
as soon as his friends have collected and arranged them, speak suf- 

Lo?G. 



100 iitf* or 

ficiently for themselves ; and had they fallen from a hand more dig- 
nified in the ranks of society than that of a peasant, they had per- 
haps bestowed as unusual a grace there, as even in the humbler shade 
of rustic inspiration from whence they really sprung. 

" To the obscure scene of Burn's education, and to the laborious, 
though honourable station of rural industry, in which his parentage 
enrolled him, almost every inhabitant in the south of Scotland can 
give testimony. His only surviving brother, Gilbert Burns, now 
guides the ploughshare of his forefathers in Ayrshire, at a small 
farm near Mauchline ; and our poet's eldest son, (a lad of nine years 
of age, whose early dispositions already prove him to be the in- 
heritor of his fathers talents as well as indigence,) has been destined 
by his family to the humble employments of the loom. 

" That Burns had received no classical education, and was ac- 
quainted with the Greek and Roman authors only through the me- 
dium of translations, is a fact that can be indisputably proved. I 
have seldom seen him at a loss in conversation, unless where the 
dead languages and their writers were the subjects of discussion. 
When 1 have pressed him to tell me why he never took pains to ac- 
quire the Latin, in particular, a language which his happy memory 
had so soon enabled him to be master of, he used only to reply with 
a smile, that he already knew all the Latin he desired to learn, and 
that was, omma vincit amor ; a phrase, that from his writings and 
most favourite pursuits, it should undoubtedly seem he was most 
thoroughly versed in ; but I really believe his classical erudition 
extended little, if any, further. 

" The penchant Mr. Burns had uniformily acknowledged for the 
festive pleasures of the table, and towards the fairer and softer ob- 
jects of nature's creation, has been the rallying point where the at- 
tacks of his censors, both pious and moral, have been directed ; and 
to these, it must be confessed, he showed himself no stoic. His 
poetical pieces blend with alternate happiness of description, the 
frolic spirit ot the joy inspiring bowl, or melt the heart to the ten- 
der and impassioned sentiments in which beauty always taught him 
to pour forth his own. But who would wish to reprove the failings 
he has consecrated with such lively touches of nature ! And where 
is the rugged moralist who will persuade us so far to ; chill the 
genial current of the soul/ as to regret that Ovid ever celebrated 
his Corinna, or that Anacreon sung beneath his vine 1 

" I will not, however, undertake to be the apologist of the irre- 
gularities, even of a man of genius, though I believe it is certainly 
understood that genius never was free of irregularities, as that their 
absolution may in a great measure be justly claimed, since it is cer- 
tain that the world had continued very stationary in its intellectual 
acquirements, had it never given birth to any but men of plain 
sense. Evenness of conduct, and a due regard to the decorums of 
the world, have been so rarely seen to move hand in hand with 
genius, that some have gone a3 far as to say, though there I cannot 
acquiesce, that they are even incompatible ; besides, the frailties 
that cast their shade over superior merit, are more conspicuously 
glaring, than where they are the attendants of mere mediocrity : 
it is only on the gem we are disturbed to see the dust ; the peb- 
We may be soiled, and we never mind itt The eccentric intuitions 



ROBERT BURNS. 101 

of geniug, too often yield the soul to the wild effervescence of de- 
sires, always unbounded, and sometimes equally dangerous to the 
repose of others as fatal to its own. No wonder then if virtue her- 
self be sometimes lost in the blaze of kindling animation, or that 
the calm monitions of reason were not found sufficient to fetter an 
imagination, which scorned the narrow limits and restrictions that 
would chain it to the level of ordinary minds. The child of nature, 
the child of sensibility, unbroke to the refrigerative precepts of 
philosophy, untaught always to vanquish the passions which were 
the only source of his frequent errors, Burns makes his own art- 
less apology in terms more forcible, than all the argumentatory 
vindications in the world could do, in one of his poems, where 
he delineates, with his usual simplicity, the progress of his mind, 
and its first expansion to the lessons of the tutelary muse. 

I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, 
By Passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray, 
"Was light from Heav'n. 

" I have already transgressed far beyond the bounds I had pro- 
posed to myself, on first committing to paper these sketches, which 
comprehend what at least 1 have been led to deem the leading 
features of Burns's mind and character. A critique, either literary 
or moral, I do not aim at ; mine is wholly fulfilled, if in these 
paragraphs I have been able to delineate any of those strong traits 
that distinguished him, of those talents which raised him from the 
plough, where he passed the bleak morning of his life, weaving his 
rude wreaths of poesy with the wild field-flowers that sprung round 
his cottage to that enviable eminence of literary fame, where 
Scotland will long cherish his memory with delight and gratitude ; 
and proudly remember, that beneath her cold sky, a genius was 
ripened without care or culture, that would have done honour to the 
genial temperature of climes better adapted to cherishing its 
germs ; to the perfecting of those luxuriances, that warmth of fancy 
and colouring, in which he so eminently excelled. 

" From several paragraphs I have noticed in the public prints, 
even since the idea of sending these thither was formed, I find pri- 
vate animosities are not yet subsided, and envy has not yet done 
her part. I still trust that honest fame will be affixed to Burns's 
reputation, which he will be found to have merited by the candid 
of his countrymen ; and where a kindred bosom is found that has 
been taught to glow with the fires that animated Burns, should a 
recollection of the imprudences that sullied his brighter qualifica- 
tions interpose, let him remember at the same time the imperfec- 
tion of all human excellence ; and leave those inconsistencies which 
alternately exalted his nature to the seraph, and sunk it again into 
the man, to the tribunal which alone can investigate the labyrinths 
of the human heart — 

' Where they alike in trembling hope repose;— 
The bosom of his father, and his God.' 

Gbai's Elegy. 
" Annandale, Aug. 7. 1796." 



102 LIFE OF 

After this account of the life and personal character of Burns, it 
may be expected that some inquiry should be made into his literary 
merits. It will not however be necessary to enter very minutely 
into this investigation. If fiction be, as some suppose, the soul of 
poetry, no one had ever less pretensions to the name of poet than 
Burns. Though he has displayed great powers of imagination, yet 
the subjects on which he has written, are seldom, if ever, imaginary ; 
his poems, as well as his letters, may be considered as the effusions 
of his sensibility, and the transcript of his own musings on the real 
incidents of his humble life. If we add, that they also contain most 
happy delineations of the characters, manners, and scenery that pre- 
sented themselves to his observation, we shall include almost all the 
subjects of his muse. His writings may therefore be regarded as 
affording a great part of the data on which our account of his per- 
sonal character has been founded ; and most of the observations we 
have applied to the man, are applicable, with little variation, to 
the poet. 

The impression of his birth, and of his original station in life, 
was not more evident on his form and manners, than on his poetical 
productions. The incidents which form the subjects of his poems, 
though some of them highly interesting, and susceptible of poetical 
imagery, are incidents in the life of a peasant who takes no pains to 
disguise the lowliness of his condition, or to throw into shade the 
circumstances attending it, which more feeble or more artificial 
minds would have endeavoured to conceal. The same rudeness and 
inattention appears in the formation of his rhymes, which are fre- 
quently incorrect, while the measures in which many of the poems 
are written has little of the pomp or harmony of modern versifica- 
tion, and is indeed, to an English ear, strange and uncouth. The 
greater part of his earlier poems are written in the dialect of his 
country, which is obscure, if not unintelligible to Englishmen, and 
which, though it still adheres more or less to the speech of almost 
every Scotchman, all the polite and the ambitious are now endea- 
vouring to banish from their tongues as well as their writings. The 
use of it in composition naturally therefore calls up ideas of vul- 
garity in the mind. These singularities are increased by the cha- 
racter of the poet, who delights to express himself with a simplicity 
that approaches to nakedness, and with an unmeasured energy that 
often alarms delicacy, and sometimes offends taste. Hence, in ap- 
proaching him, the first impression is perhaps repulsive : there is 
an air of coarseness about him, which is difficultly reconciled with 
our established notions of poetical excellence. 

As the reader, however, becomes better acquainted with the poet, 
the effects of his peculiarities lessen. He perceives in his poems, 
even on the lowest subjects, expressions of sentiment, and delinea- 
tions of manners, which are highly interesting. The scenery he de- 
scribes is evidently taken from real life ; the characters he intro* 
duces, and the incidents he relates, have the impression of nature 
and truth. His humour, though wild and unbridled, is irresistibly 
amusing, and is sometimes, heightened in its effects by the introduc- 
tion of emotions of tenderness, with which genuine humour so hap- 
pily unites. Nor is this the extent of his power. The reader, as 
he examines farther, discovers that the poet is not confined to the 



ROBERT BURNS. 103 

descriptive, the humourous, or the pathetic : he is found, as occa- 
sion offers, to rise with ease into the terrible and the sublime. 
Every where he appears devoid of artifice, performing what he at- 
tempts with little apparent effort ; and impressing on the offspring 
of his fancy the stamp of his understanding. The reader, capable of 
forming a just estimate of poetical talent, discovers in these circum- 
stances marks of uncommon genius, and is willing to investigate 
more minutely its nature and its claim to originality. This last 
point we shall examine first. 

That Burns had not the advantages of a classical education, or of 
any degree of acquaintance with the Greek or Eoman writers in 
their original dress, has appeared in the history of his life. He ac- 
quired, indeed, some knowledge of the French language, but it does 
not appear that he was ever much conversant in French literature, 
nor is there any evidence of his having derived any of his poetical 
stories from that source. With the English classics he became well 
acquainted iu the course of his life, and the effects of this acquaint- 
ance are observable in his latter productions; but the character and 
style of his poetry were formed very early, and the model which he 
followed, in as far as he can be. said to have had one, is to be sought 
for in the works of the poets who have written in the Scottish dia- 
lect — in the works of such of them more especially, as are familiar 
to the peasantry of Scotland. Some observations on these may form 
a proper introduction to a more particular examination of the poetry 
of Burns. The studies of the editor in this direction are indeed 
very recent and very imperfect. It would have been imprudent for 
him to have entered on this subject at all, but for the kindness of 
Mr. Eamsay of Oehtertyre, whose assistance he is proud to acknow- 
ledge, and to whom the reader must ascribe whatever is of any 
value in the following imperfect sketch of literary compositions in 
the Scottish idiom. 

It is a circumstance not a little curious, and which does not seem 
to be satisfactorily explained, that in the thirteenth century, the 
language of the two British nations, if at all different, differed only 
in dialect, the Gaelic in the one, like the Welch and Armoric in the 
other, being confined to the mountainous districts. The English 
under the Edwards, and the Scots under Wallace and Bruce, spoke 
the sajne language. We may observe also, that in Scotland the his- 
tory ascends to a period nearly as remote as in England. Barbour 
and Blind Harry, James the First, Dunbar, Douglas, and Lindsay, 
who lived in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries, were 
coeval with the fathers of poetry in England ; and in the opinion of 
Mr. Wharton, not inferior to them in genius or in composition. 
Though the language of the two countries gradually deviated from 
each other during this period, yet the difference on the whole was 
not considerable - nor perhaps greater than between the different 
dialects of the different parts of England in our own time. 

At the death of James the Fifth, in 1542, the language of Scot- 
land was in a flourishing condition, wanting only writers in prose 
equal to those in verse. Two circumstances, propitious on the 
whole, operated to prevent this. The first was the passion of the 
Scots for composition in Latin ; and the second, the accession of 
James the Sixth to the English throne. It may easily be imagined, 



104 LIFE OF 

that if Buchanan had devoted his admirable talents, even in part, 
to the cultivation of his native tongue, as was done by the revivers 
of letters in Italy, he would have left compositions in that language 
which might have excited other men of genius to have followed his 
example, and given duration to the language itself. The union of 
the two crowns in the person of James, overthrew all reasonable ex- 
pectation of this kind. That monarch, seated on the English throne, 
would no longer be addressed in the rude dialect in which the 
Scottish clergy had so often insulted his dignity. He encouraged 
Latin or English only, both of which he prided himself on writing 
with purity, though he himself never could acquire the English 
pronunciation, but spoke with a Scottish idiom and intonation to 
the last. Scotsmen of talents declined writing in their native lan- 
guage, which they knew was not acceptable to their learned and 
pedantic monarch ; and at a time when national prejudice and en- 
mity prevailed to a great degree, they disdained to study the nice- 
ties of the English tongue, though of so much easier acquisition 
than a dead language. Lord Stirling and Drummond of Hawthorden, 
the only Scotsmen who wrote poetry in those times, were exceptions. 
They studied the language of England, and composed in it with pre- 
cision and elegance. They were however the last of their countrymen 
who deserved to be considered as poets in that century. The muses 
of Scotland sunk into silence, and did not again raise their voices 
for a period of eighty years. 

To what causes are we to attribute this extreme depression among 
a people comparatively learned, enterprising, and ingenious ] Shall 
we impute it to the fanaticism of the covenanters, or to the 
tyranny of the house of Stuart after their restoration to the throne ? 
Doubtless these causes operated, but they seem unequal to account 
for the effect. In England, similar distractions and oppressions 
took place, yet poetry flourished there in a remarkable degree. 
During this period, Cowley, and Waller, and Dry den sung, andMil- 
ton raised his strain of unparalleled grandeur. To the cause al- 
ready mentioned, another must be added, in accounting for the 
torpor of Scottish literature — the want of a proper vehicle for men 
of genius to employ. The civil wars had frightened away the Latin 
muses, and no standard had been established of the Scottish tongue, 
which was deviating still farther from the pure English idiom! 

The revival of literature in Scotland may be dated from the es- 
tablishment of the union, or rather from the extinction of the re- 
bellion in 1715. The nations being finally incorporated, it was 
clearly seen that their tongues must in the end incorporate also ; or 
rather indeed that the Scottish language must degenerate into a 
provincial idiom, to be avoided by those who would aim at distinc- 
tion in letters, or rise to eminence in the united legislature. 

Soon after this, a band of men of genius appeared, who studied 
the English classics, and imitated their beauties, in the same man- 
ner as they studied the classics of Greece and Kome. They had ad- 
mirable models of composition lately presented to them by the 
writers of the reign of Queen Anne ; particularly in the periodical 
papers published by Steele, Addison, and their associated friends, 
which circulated widely through Scotland, and diffused every 
where a taste for purity of style and sentiment, and for critical dis- 






ROBERT BURNS. 105 

quisition. At length, the Scottish writers succeeded in English 
composition, and a union was formed of the literary talents, as well 
as of the legislatures of the two nations. On this occasion the poets 
took the lead. While Henry Home, Dr. Wallace, and their learned 
associates, were only laying in their intellectual stores, and study- 
ing to clear themselves of their Scottish idioms, Thomson, Mallet, 
and Hamilton of Bangour, had made their appearance before the 
public, and been enrolled on the list of English poets. The writers 
in prose followed — a numerous and powerful band, and poured their 
ample stores into the general stream of British literature. Scot- 
land possessed her four universities before the accession of James to 
the English throne. Immediately before the union, she acquired 
her parochial schools. These establishments combining happily to- 
gether, made the elements of knowledge of easy acquisition, and 
presented a direct path, by which the ardent student might be car- 
ried along into the recesses of science or learning. As civil broils 
ceased, and faction and prejudice gradually died away, a wider field 
was opened to literary ambition, and the influence of the Scottish 
institutions for instruction, on the productions of the press, became 
more and more apparent. 

It seems, indeed, probable, that the establishment of the paro- 
chial schools produced effects on the rural muse of Scotland also, 
which have not hitherto been suspected, and which, though less 
splendid in their nature, are not however to be regarded as trivial, 
whether we consider the happiness or the morals of the people. 

There is some reason to believe, that the original inhabitants of 
the British isles possessed a peculiar and interesting species of mu- 
sic, which being banished from the plains by the successive inva- 
sions of the Saxons, Danes, and Normans, was preserved with the 
native race, in the wilds of Ireland, and in the mountains of Scot- 
land and Wales. The Irish, the Scottish, and the Welch music, 
differ^ indeed, from each other, but the difference may be consi- 
dered as in dialect only, and probably produced by the influence of 
time, like the different dialects of their common language. If this 
conjecture be true, the Scottish music must be more immediately 
of a Highland origin, and the Lowland tunes, though now of a cha- 
racter somewhat distinct, must have descended from the mountains 
in remote ages. Whatever credit may be given to conjectures, evi- 
dently involved in great uncertainty, there can be no doubt that 
the Scottish peasantry have been long in possession of a number of 
songs and ballads composed in their native dialect, and sung to 
their native music. The subjects of these compositions were such 
as most interested the simple inhabitants, and in the succession of 
time, varied probably as the condition of society varied. During 
the separation and the hostility of the two nations, these songs and 
ballads, as far as our imperfect documents enable us to judge, were 
chiefly warlike ; such as the Huntis of Cheviot, and the Battle of 
Harlaw. After the union of the two crowns, when a certain degree 
of peace and tranquility took place, the rural muse of Scotland 
breathed in softer accents. " In the want of real evidence respect- 
ing the history of our songs," says Ramsay of Ochertyre, " recourse 
may be had to conjecture. One would be disposed to think, that 
e 5 



106 XIFE OF 

the most beautiful of the Scottish tunes were clothed with new 
words after the union of the crowns. The inhabitants of the bor- 
ders, who had formerly been warriors from choice, and husbandmen 
from necessity, either quitted the country, or were transformed into 
real shepherds, easy in their circumstances, and satisfied with their lot. 
Some sparks of that spirit of chivalry for which they are celebrated 
by Froissart, remained sufficient to inspire elevation of sentiment 
and gallantry towards the fair sex. The familiarity and kindness 
which had long subsisted between the gentry and the peasantry, 
could not all at once be obliterated, and this connexion tended to 
sweeten rural life. In this state of innocence, ease, and tranquillity 
of mind, the love of poetry and music would still retain its ground, 
though it would naturally assume a form congenial to the more 
peaceful state of society. The minstrels, whose metrical tales used 
once to rouse the borderers, like the trumpet's sound, had been, by 
an order of the Legislature (1579), classed with rogues and vaga- 
bonds, and attempted to be suppressed. Knox and his disciples 
influenced the Scottish parliament, but contended in vain with 
her rural muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, probably on the banks 
of the Tweed, or some of its tributary streams, one or more ori- 
ginal geniuses may have arisen, who were destined to give a new 
turn to the taste of their countrymen. They would see that the 
events and pursuits which chequer private life were the proper 
subjects for popular poetry. Love, which had formerly held a di- 
vided sway with glory and ambition, became now the master-passion 
of the soul. To portray in lively and delicate colours, though with 
a hasty hand, the hopes and fears that agitate the breast of the 
lovesick swain, or forlorn maiden, afford ample scope to the rural 
poet. Love-songs, of which Tibullus himself would not have been 
ashamed, might be composed by an uneducated rustic with a slight 
tincture of letters; or if in these songs the character of the rustic 
be sometimes assumed, the truth of character, and the language of 
nature, are preserved. With unaffected simplicity and tenderness, 
topics are urged, most likely to soften the heart of a cruel and coy 
mistress, or to regain a fickle lover. E?en in such as are of a me- 
lancholy cast, a ray of hope breaks through, and dispels the deep 
and settled gloom which characterizes the sweetest of the Highland 
luinags, or vocal airs. !Nor are these songs all plaintive ; many of 
them are lively and humourous, and some appear to us coarse and 
indelicate. They seem, however, genuine descriptions of the man- 
ners of an energetic and sequestered people in their hours of mirth 
and festivity, though in their portraits, some objects are brought 
into open view, which more fastidious painters would have thrown 
into shade." 

" As those rural poets sung for amusement, not for gain, their 
effusions seldom exceeded a love-song, or a ballad of satire or hu- 
mour, which, like the words of the elder minstrels, were seldom 
committed to writing, but treasured up in the memory of their 
friends and neighbours. Neither known to the learned nor pa« 
tronized by the great, these rustic bards lived and died in obscurity; 
and by a strange fatality, their story, and even their very names 
have been forgotten. When proper models for pastoral songs were 
produced, there would be no want of imitators. To succeed in this 






ROBERT BURNS. 109 

species of composition, soundness of understanding and sensibility 
of heart were more requisite than flights of imagination or pomp 
of numbers. Great changes have certainly taken place in Scottish 
song- writing, though we cannot trace the steps of thi3 change ; and 
few of the pieces admired in Queen Mary's time are now to be dis- 
covered in modern collections. It is possible, though not probable, 
that the music may have remained nearly the same, though the 
words to the tunes were entirely new-modelled." 

These conjectures are highly ingenious. It cannot, however, be 
presumed, that the state of ease and tranquility described by Mr. 
Ramsay took place among the Scottish peasantry immediately on 
the union of the crowns, or indeed during the greater part of the 
seventeenth century. The Scottish nation, through all ranks, was 
deeply agitated by the civil wars, and the religious persecutions 
which succeeded each other in that disastrous period ; it was not 
till after the revolution in 1688, and the subsequent establishment 
of their beloved form of church government, that the peasantry of 
the Lowlands enjoyed comparative repose ; and it is since that 
period that a greai number of the most admired Scottkh songs 
have been produced, though the tunes to which they are sung, are, 
in general, of much greater antiquity. It is not unreasonable to 
suppose, that the peace and security derived from the Revolution, 
and the Union, produced a favourable change on the rustic poetry 
of Scotland ; and it will scarcely be doubted, that the institution of 
parish schools in 1696, by which a certain degree of instruction 
was diffused universally among the peasantry, contributed to this 
happy effect. 

Soon after this appeared Allan Ramsay, the Scottish Theocritus. 
He was born on the high mountains that divides Clydesdale and 
Annandale, in a small hamlet by the banks of the Glengonar, a 
stream which descends into the Clyde. The ruins of this hamlet 
are still shown to the inquiring traveller. He was the son of a 
peasant, and probably received such instruction as his parish- 
school bestowed, and the poverty of his parents admitted. Ramsay 
made his appearance in Edinburgh, in the beginning of the present 
century, in the humble character of an apprentice to a barber ; he 
was then fourteen or fifteen years of age. By degrees he acquired 
notice for his social disposition, and his talent for the composition 
of verses in the Scottish idiom ; and, changing his profession for 
that of a bookseller, he became intimate with many of the literary, 
as well as the gay and fashionable characters of his time. Having 
published a volume of poems of his own in 1721, which was favour- 
ably received, he undertook to make a collection of ancient Scot- 
tish poems, under the title of the Ever- Green, and was afterwards 
encouraged to present to the world a collection of Scottish songs. 
"From what sources he procured them," says Ramsay of Ochteityre, 
"whether from tradition or manuscript, is uncertain. As in the 
Ever- Green he made some rash attempts to improve on the origi- 
nals of his ancient poems, he probably used still greater freedom 
with the songs and ballads. The truth cannot, however, be known 
on this point, till manuscripts of the songs printed by him, more 
ancient than the present century, shall be produced, or access be 
obtained to his own papers, if they are still in existence. To seve- 



108 LIFE OF 

ral tunes which either wanted words, or had words that were im- 
proper or imperfect he or his friends adapted verses worthy of the 
melodies they accompanied, worthy indeed of the golden age. 
These verses were perfectly intelligible to every rustic, yet justly 
admired by persons of taste, who regarded them as the offspring of 
the pastoral muse. In some respects Ramsay had advantages 
not possessed by poets writing in the Scottish dialect in our days. 
Songs in the dialect of Cumberland or Lancashire, could never be 
popular, because these dialects have never been spoken by persons 
of fashion. But till the middle of the present century, every 
Scotsman, from the peer to the peasant, spoke a truly Doric lan- 
guage. It is true the English moralists and poets were by this 
time read by every person of condition, and considered as the stan- 
dards for polite composition. But, as national prejudices were 
still strong, the busy, the learned, the gay, and the fair continued 
to speak their native dialect, and that with an elegance and poig- 
nancy of which Scotsmen of the present day can have no just no- 
tion. I am old enough to have conversed with Mr. Spittal, of Leu- 
chat, a scholar and a man of fashion, who survived all the members 
of the Union Parliament, in which he had a seat. His pronuncia- 
tion and phraseology differed as much from the common dialect, 
as the language of St. James's from that of Thames Street. Had 
we retained a court and parliament of our own, the tongues of the 
two sister kingdoms would indeed have differed like the Castilian 
and Portuguese ; but each would have its own classics, not in a sin- 
gle branch, but in the whole circle of literature.. 

" Ramsay associated with the men of wit and fashion of his day, 
and several of them attempted to write poetry in his manner. Per- 
sons too idle or too dissipated to think of compositions that required 
much exertion, succeeded very happily in making tender sonnets 
to favourite tunes in compliment to their mistresses, and trans- 
forming themselves into impassioned shepherds, caught the lan- 
guage of the characters they assumed. Thus, about the year 1731, 
Robert Crawfurd of Auchinames, wrote the modern song of Tweed- 
side, which has been so much admired. In 1743, Sir Gilbert Elliot, 
the first of our lawyers, who both spoke and wrote English elegantly, 
composed, in the character of a love-sick swain, a beautiful song, be- 
ginning, Mg sheep I neglected, I lost my sheep hook, on the marriage 
of his mistress, Miss Forbes, with Ronald Crawfurd. And about 
twelve years afterwards, the sister of Sir Gilbert wrote the ancient 
words to the tune of the Flowers of the Forest, and supposed to 
allude to the battle of Flodden. In spite of the double rhyme, it 
is a sweet, and though in some parts allegorical, a natural expres- 
sion of national sorrow. The more modern words to the same tune, 
beginning, / have seen the smiling of fortune beguiling, were written 
long before by Mrs. Cockburn, a woman of great wit, who outlived 
ail the first group of literati of the present century, all of whom 
were very fond of her. I was delighted with her company, though 
when I saw her, she was very old. Much did she know that is now 
lost." 

In addition to these instances of Scottish song3, produced in the 
earlier part of the present century, may be mentioned the ballad of 
ffardiknute, by Lady Wardlaw ; the ballad of William and Marga* 






ROBERT BURNS. 1 1 SF 

ret / and the song entitled the Biris of Invermay, by Mallet ; the 
love -song, beginning, For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove, produced 
by the youthful muse of Thomson ; and the exquisite pathetic bal- 
lad, the Braes of Yarrow, by Hamilton of Bangour. On the revival 
of letters in Scotland, subsequent to the Union, a very general taste 
seems to have prevailed for the national songs and music. " For 
many years," says Mr. Ramsay, " the singing of songs was the great 
delight of the higher and middle order of the people, as well as of 
the peasantry ; and though a taste for Italian music has interfered 
with this amusement, it is still very prevalent. Between forty and 
fifty years ago, the common people were not only exceedingly fond 
of songs and ballads, but of metrical history. Often have I, in my 
cheerful morn of youth, listened to them with delight, when read- 
ing or reciting the exploits of Wallace and Bruce against the South' 
rons. Lord Hailes was wont to call Blind Harry their Bible, he 
being their great favourite next the Scriptures. When, therefore, 
one in the vale of life felt the first emotion of genius, he wanted 
not models sui 'generis. But though the seeds of poetry were scat- 
tered with a plentiful hand among the Scottish peasantry, the pro- 
duct was probably like pears and apples — of a thousand that sprung 
up, nine hundred and fifty are so bad as to set the teeth on edge ; 
forty- five or more are passable and useful ; and the rest of an ex- 
quisite flavour. Allan Ramsay and Burns are wildings of this last 
description. They had the example of the elder Scottish poets; 
they were not without the aid of the best English writers ; and, 
what was of still more importance, they were no strangers to the 
book of nature, and to the book of God." 

From this general view, it is apparent that Allan Ramsay may 
be considered as in a great measure the reviver of the rural poetry 
of his country. His collection of ancient Scottish poems under the 
name of The Ever- Green, his collection of Scottish songs, and his 
own poems, the principal of which is the Gentle Shepherd, have 
been universally read among the peasantry of his country, and have 
in some degree superseded the adventures of Bruce and Wallace, as 
recorded by Barbour and Blind Harry. Burns was well acquainted 
with all of these. He had also before him the poems of Fergusson 
in the Scottish dialect, which have been produced in our own 
times, and of which it will be necessary to give a short account. 

Fergusson was born of parents who had it in their power to pro- 
cure him a liberal education, a circumstance, however, which in 
Scotland, implies no very high rank in society. From a well 
written and apparently authentic account of his life, we learn that 
he spent six years at the schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, and 
several years at the universities of Edinburgh and St. Andrew's. 
It appears that he was at onetime destined for the Scottish church ; 
but as he advanced towards manhood, he renounced that intention, 
and at Edinburgh entered the office of a writer to the signet, a 
title which designates and separates a higher order of Scottish at- 
tornies. Fergusson had sensibility of mind, a warm and generous 
heart, and talents for society, of the most attractive kind. To such 
a man no situation could be more dangerous than that in which he 
was placed. The excesses into which he was led, impaired his fee- 
ble constitution, and he sunk under them in the month of October 



110 LIFE OF 

1774, in his 28d or 24th year. Burns was not acquainted with the 
poems of this youthful genius when he himself began to write 
poetry ; and when he first saw them, he had renounced the muses. 
But while he resided in the town of Irvine, meeting with Fergus- 
son's Scottish Poems, he informs us that he "strung his lyre anew 
with emulating vigour." Touched by the sympathy originating in 
kindred genius, and in the forebodings of similar fortune, Burns 
regarded Fergusson with a partial and an affectionate admiration. 
Over his grave he erected a monument, as has already been men- 
tioned ; and his poems he has in several instances, made the sub* 
jects of his imitation. 

From this account of the Scottish poems known to Burns, those 
who are acquainted with them will see they are chiefly humourous 
or pathetic ; and under one or other of these descriptions most of 
his own poems will class. Let us compare him with his prede- 
cessors under each of these points of view, and close our examina- 
tion with a few general observations. 

It has frequently been observed, that Scotland has produced 
comparatively speaking, few writers who have excelled in humour. 
But this observation is true only when applied to those who have 
continued to reside in their own country, and have confined them- 
selves to composition in pure English; and in these circumstances 
it admits of an easy explanation. The Scottish poets, who have 
written in the dialect of Scotland, have been at all times remark- 
able for dwelling on subjects of humour, in which indeed some of 
them have excelled. It would be easy to show, that the dialect of 
Scotland having become provincial, is now scarcely suited to the 
more elevated kinds of poetry. If we may believe that the poem 
of Christis Kirk of the Grene was written by James the First of 
Scotland, this accomplished monarch, who had received an English 
education under Henry the Fourth, and who bore arms under his 
gallant successor, gave the model on which the greater part of the 
humorous productions of the rustic muse of Scotland had been 
formed. Christis Kirk of the Grene was reprinted by .Ramsay, 
somewhat modernized in the orthography, and two cantos were 
added by him, in which he attempts to carry on the design. Hence 
the poem of King James is usually printed in Ramsay's works. 
The royal bard describes, in the first canto, a rustic dance, and 
afterwards a contention in archery, ending in an affray. Ramsay 
relates the restoration of concord, and the renewal of the rural 
sports with the humours of a country wedding. Though each of 
the poets describes the manners of his respective age, yet in the 
whole piece there is a very sufficient uniformity ; a striking proof 
of the identity of character in i\ie Scottish peasantry at the two 
periods, distant from each other three hundred years. It is an 
honourable distinction to this body of men, that their character 
and manners, very little embellished, have been found to be sus- 
ceptible of an amusing and interesting species of poetry : and it 
must appear not a little curious that the single nation of modern 
Europe which possesses an original poetry, should have received 
the model, followed by their rustic bards, from the monarch on the 
throne, 

The two additional cantos to VhrUtU Kirk of the Grene, written 



ROBERT BURNS. Ill 

by Ramsay, though objectionable in point of delicacy, are among 
the happiest of his productions. His chief excellence indeed, lay 
in the description of rural characters, incidents, and scenery ; for 
he did not possess any very high powers either of imagination or of 
understanding. He was well acquainted with the peasantry of 
Scotland, their lives and opinions. The subject was in a great 
measure new; his talents were equal to the subject, and he has 
shown that it may be happily adapted to pastoral poetry. In his 
Gentle Shepherd, the characters are delineations from nature, the 
descriptive parts are in the genuine style of beautiful simplicity, 
the passions and affections of rural life are finely portrayed, and the 
heart is pleasingly interested in the happiness that is bestowed on 
innocence and virtue. Throughout the whole there is an air of 
reality which the most careless reader cannot but perceive ; and in 
fact no poem ever perhaps acquired so high a reputation, in which 
truth received so little embellishment from the imagination. In 
pastoral songs, and his rural tales, Eamsay appears to less advan- 
tage, indeed, but still with considerable attraction. The story of 
the Monk and the Miller's Wife, though somewhat licentious, may 
rank with the happiest productions of Prior or La Fontaine. But 
when he attempts subjects from higher life, and aims at pure 
English composition, he is feeble and uninteresting, and seldom 
ever reaches mediocrity. Neither are his familiar epistles and 
elegie3 in the Scottish dialect entitled to much approbation. 
Though Fergusson had higher powers of imagination than Ramsay, 
his genius was not of the highest order; nor did his learning, 
which was considerable, improve his genius. His poems written in 
pure English, in which he often follows classical models, though 
superior to the English poems of Ramsay, seldom rise above medio- 
crity ; but in those composed in the Scottish dialect he is often 
very successful. He was, in general, however, less happy than 
Ramsay in the subjects of his muse. As he spent the greater part 
of his life in Edinburgh, and wrote for his amusement in the in- 
tervals of business or dissipation, his Scottish poems are chiefly 
founded on the incidents of a town life, which, though they are not 
susceptible of humour, do not admit of those delineations of scenery 
and manners, which vivify the rural poetry of Ramsay, and which 
so agreeably amuse the fancy and interest the heart. The town 
eclogues of Fergusson, if we may so denominate them, are however 
faithful to nature, and often distinguished by a very happy vein of 
humour. His poems entitled The Daft Days, The King's Birth day 
in Edinburgh, Leith Races, and The Halloio Fair, will justify this 
character. In these, particularly in the last, he imitated Christis 
Kirk of the Grene, as Ramsay had done before him. His Address to 
the Tron-hirlc Bell is an exquisite piece of humour, which Burns 
has scarcely excelled. In appreciating the genius of Fergusson, it 
ought to be recollected, that his poems are the careless effusions of 
an irregular though aimable young man, who wrote for the periodi- 
cal papers of the day, and who died in early youth. Had his life 
been prolonged under happier circumstances of fortune, he would 
probably have risen to much higher reputation. He might have 
excelled in rural poetry, for though his professed pastorals on the 
established Sicilian model, axe stale and uninteresting, The Far< 



112 LIFE OF 

mer's Ingle, which may be considered as a Scottish pastoral, is the 
happiest of all his productions, and certainly was the archetype of 
the Cotter's Saturday Night. Fergusson, and more especially Burns, 
have shown, that the character and manners of the peasantry of 
Scotland, of the present times, are as well adapted to poetry, as in 
the days of Eamsay, or of the author of Christis Kirk of the Grene. 
The humour of Burns is of a richer vein than that of Ramsay 
or Fergusson, both of whom, as he himself informs us, he had 
frequently in his eye, but rather with a view to kindle at their 
flame, than to servile imitation." His descriptive powers, whether 
the objects on which they are employed be comic or serious, animate, 
or inanimate, are of the highest order. — A superiority of this kind 
is essential to every species of poetical excellence. In one of his 
earlier poems his plan seems to be to inculcate a lesson of content- 
ment on the lower classes of society, by showing that their superiors 
are neither much better nor happier than themselves ; and this he 
chooses to execute in the form of a dialogue between two dogs. 
He introduces this dialogue by an account of the persons and 
characters of the speakers. The first, whom he has named Coe$ar> 
is a dog of condition : 

1 His locked, letter'd, braw brass -collar, 
Showed him the gentleman and scholar.' 

High-bred though he is, he is however full of condescension : 

' At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 
An stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.' 

The other Luath, is a " ploughman's-collie, but a cur of a good 
heart and a sound understanding. 

1 His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 

Aye gat him friends in ilka place ; 
His breast was white, his towsie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl.' 

Never were twa doys so exquisitely delineated. Their gambols, 
before they sit down to moralize, are described with an equal de* 
gree of happiness ; and through the whole dialogue, the character, 
as well as the different condition of the two speakers, is kept in 
view. The speech of Luath, in which he enumerates the comforts 
of the poor, gives the following account of their merriment on the 
first day of the year : 

' That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds : 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
And sheds a heart-inspirin' steam ; 
The luntin pipe, and sneeshin* mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid-will ; 
The canty auld folks crackin' crouse, 
The young anes rantin thro' the house — 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.' 

Of all the animals who have moralized on human affairs 
since the days of JEsop, the dog seems best entitled to the privi- 
lege, as well from his superior sagacity, as from his Leing, more 



ROBERT BURNS. 113 

than any other, the friend and associate of man. The dogs of 
Burns, excepting in their talent for moralizing, are downright 
dogs ; and not like the horses of Swift, or the Hind and Panther of 
Dryden, men in the shape ot brutes. It is this circumstance that 
heightens the humour of the dialogue. The " twa dogs ;" are con- 
stantly kept before our eyes, and the contrast between their form 
and character as dogs, and the sagacity of their conversation, 
heightens the humour, and deepens the impression of the poet's 
satire. Though in this poem the chief excellence may be consi- 
dered as humour, yet great talents are displayed in its composition ; 
the happiest powers of description and the deepest insight into the 
human heart. It is seldom, however, that the humour of Burns 
appears in so simple a form. The liveliness of his sensibility fre- 
quently impels him to introduce into subjects of humour, emotions 
of tenderness or of pity ; and, where occasion admits, he is some- 
times carried on to exert the higher powers of imagination. In 
such instances he leaves the society of Ramsay and of Fergusson, 
and associates himself with the masters of English poetry, whose 
language he frequently assumes. 

Of the union of tenderness and humour, examples may be found 
in The Death and Dying Words of 'poor Mailie, in The auld 
Farmer's New- Year's Morning Salutation to his Mare Maggie, and in 
many other of his poems. The praise of whisky is a favourite sub- 
ject with Burns. To this he dedicates his poem of Scotch Drink, 
After mentioning its cheering influence in a variety of situations, 
he describes, with singular liveliness and power of fancy, its stimu- 
lating effects on the blacksmith working at his forge : 






* Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owre hip, wi' sturdy wheel, 
The strong fore-hammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring and reel 
Wi' dinsome clamour.' 



On another occasion, choosing to exalt whisky above wine, he 
introduces a comparison between the natives of more genial climes, 
to whom the vine furnishes their beverage, and his own country- 
men who drink the spirit of malt. The description of the Scotsman 
is humorous : 

* But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, such is royal George's will, 

An' there's the foe ; 
He has nae thought but how to kill 
Twa at a blow.' 

Here the notion of danger rouses the imagination of the poet. 
He goes on thus : 

• Nae cauld fainthearted doubtings teaze him; 
Death comes— wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him, 

And when he fa's. 
His latest draught o' breathing lea'es him 
In faint huzzas.' 

Again, however, he sinks into humour, and concludes the poem 
with the following most laughable, but most irreverent apostrophe : 



114 LIFE OF 

** Scotland, my auld, respected mither !: 
Though whyles ye moistify your leather, 
'Till where you sit. on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine your dam ; 
Freedom and Whisky gang thegither, 

Tak' aff your dram !" 

Of this union of humour, with the higher powers of imagi- 
nation, instances may be found in the poem entitled Death and Dr. 
Hornbook, and in almost every stanza of the Address to the Deil, 
one of the happiest of his productions. -After reproaching this 
terrible being with all his "doings" and misdeeds, in the course of 
which he passes through a series of Scottish superstitions, and 
rises at times into a high strain of poetry; he concludes this 
address, delivered in a tone of great familiarity, not altogether 
unmixed with apprehension, in the following words : 

" But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie ben 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye ablins might— I dinna ken- 
Still ha'e a stake — 
I'm wane to think upo'^yon den 

E'en for your sake." 

Humour and tenderness are here so happily intermixed, that it 
is impossible to say which preponderates. 

Fergussion wrote a dialogue between the Causeway and the 
Plainstones of Edinburgh. This probably suggested to Burns his 
dialogue between the Old and ISTew Bridge over the river Ayr. 
The nature of such subjects requires that they shall be treated 
humorously, and Fergusson has attempted nothing beyond this. 
Though the Causeway and the Plainstones talk together, no attempt 
is made to personify the speakers. A " cadie" heard the conver- 
sation, and reported it to the poet. 

In the dialogue between the Brigs of Ayr, Burns himself is the 
auditor, and the time and occasion on which it occurred is related 
with great circumstantiality. The poet, " press'd by care," or 
u inspired by whim," had left his bed in the town of Ayr, and 
wandered out alone in the darkness and solitude of a winter night, 
to the mouth of the river, where the stillness was interrupted only 
by the rushing sound of the influx of the tide. It was after 
midnight. The Dungeon-clock had struck two, and the sound 
had been repeated by Wallace-Tower. All else wa3 hushed. The 
moon shone brightly, and 

" The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 

Crept, gently, crusting, o'er the glittering stream." 

In this situation, the listening bard hears the " clanging sugh" 
of wings moving through the air, and speedily he perceives two 
beings, reared, the one on the Old, the other on the New Bridge, 
whose form and attire he describes, and whose conversation with 
each other he rehearses. These genii enter into a comparison of 
the respective edifices over which they preside, and afterwards, as 
is usual between the old and young, compare modern characters 
and manners with those of past times. They differ, as may be ex- 
pected, and taunt and scold each other in broad Scotch. This con- 
versation, which is certainly humorous, may be considered as a 
proper business of the peom, As the debate runs high, and threa- 






ROBEftT BURNS. 115 

tens serious consequences, all at once it is interrupted by a new 
scene of wonders : 



■' all before their sight 



A fairy train appear'd in order bright ; 
Adown the glittering stream they flatly danced; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced ; 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet ; 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobled Bards heroic ditties sung.' 

' The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable chief, advanced in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd , 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound.' 

Next follow a number of other allegorical beings, among whom 
are the four seasons, Rural Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Courage, 

1 Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 

A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : 

Learning and Worth in equal measures trode, 

From simple Catrine, their long-loved abode : 

Last, white-robed Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath, 

To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 

The broken iron instrument of Death ; 

At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath." 

This poem, irregular and imperfect as it is, displays various and 
powerful talents, and may serve to illustrate the genius of Burns. 
In particular, in affords a striking instance of his being carried be- 
yond his original purpose by the powers of imagination. 

In Fergussous poem, the Plainstones and Causeway contrast the 
characters of the different persons who walked upon them. Burns 
probably conceived, that, by a dialogue between the Old and New 
Bridge, he might form a humorous contrast between ancient and 
modern manners in the town of Ayr. Such a dialogue could only 
be supposed to pass in the stillness of night ; and this led our poet 
into a description of a midnight scene, which excited in a high 
degree the powers of his imagination. During the whole dialogue 
the scenery is present to his fancy, and it at length suggests to him 
a fairy dance of aerial beings, under the beams of the moon, by 
which the wrath of the Genii of the Brigs of Ayr is appeased. 

Incongruous as the different parts of this poem are, it is not an 
incongruity that displeases ; and we have only to regret that the 
poet did not bestow a little pains in making the figures more cor- 
rect, and in smoothing the versification. 

The epistles of Burns, in which may be included his Dedication 
to O. H., Esq., discover, like his other writings, the powers of a su- 
perior understanding. They display deep insight into human na- 
ture, a gay and happy strain of reflection, great independence of 
sentiment, and generosity of heart. It is to be regretted, that in 
his Holy Fair, and in some of his other poems, his humour degene- 
rates into personal satire, and is not sufficiently guarded in other 
respects. The Halloioeen of Burns is free from every objection of 
this sort. It is interesting not only from its humorous description 
of manners, but as it records the spells and charms used on the ce- 
lebration of a festival, now, even in Scotland, falling into neglect, 



116 LIFE OF 

but which was once observed over the greater part of Britain and 
Ireland. These charms are supposed to afford an insight into fu- 
turity, especially on the subject of marriage, the most interesting 
event of rural life. In the Halloween, a female, in performing one 
of the spells, has occasion to go out by moonlight to dip her shift 
sleeve into a stream running towards the South. It was not neces- 
sary to Burns to give a description of this stream, but it was the 
character of his ardent mind to pour forth not merely what the 
occasion required, but what it admitted ; and the temptation to de- 
scribe so beautiful a natural object by moonlight, was not to be re- 
sisted — 

' Whyles owre a lynn the burnie plays, 

As through the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round the rocky scar it strays ; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't; 
Whyles glitter d to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Beneath the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

Those who understand the Scottish dialect will allow this to be 
one of the finest instances of description which the records of po- 
etry afford. — Though of a very different nature, it may be com- 
pared, in point of excellence, with Thomson's description of a river 
swollen by the rains of winter, bursting through the streights that 
confine its torrent, " boiling, wheeling, foaming, and thundering 
along." 

In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly, in rural poetry of a se- 
rious nature, Burns excelled equally as in that of a humorous 
kind, and, using less of the Scottish dialect in his serious poems, 
he becomes more generally intelligible. It is difficult to decide whe- 
ther the Address to a Mouse whose nest was turned up with the 
plough, should be considered as serious or comic. Be this as it 
may, the poem is one of the happiest and most finished of his pro- 
ductions. If we smile at the " bickering brattle" of the little fly- 
ing animal, it is a smile of tenderness and pity. The descriptive 
part is admirable : the moral reflections beautiful, and arising di- 
rectly out of the occasion ; and in the conclusion there is a deep 
melancholy, a sentiment of doubt and dread, that arises to the 
sublime. The Addrese to a Mountain Daisy turned down with the 
plough, is a poem of the same nature, though somewhat inferior in 
point of originality, as well as in the interest produced. To extract 
out of interests so common, and seemingly so trivial as these, so fine 
a train of sentiment and imagery, is the surest proof, as well as the 
most brilliant triumph, of original genius. The Vision, in two 
cantos, from which a beautiful extract is taken by Mr. Mackenzie, 
in the 97th number of the Lounger, is a poem of great and various 
excellence. The opening, in which the poet describes his own state 
of mind, retiring in the evening, wearied from the labours of the 
day, to moralize on his conduct and prospects, is truly interesting. 
The chamber, if we may so term it, in which he sits down to muse, 
is an exquisite painting : 



* There, lanely by the ingle cheek, 
I sat, and eyed the spewing reek, 



ROBERT BURNS. 117 

That filled wi' hoast provoking smeek 

That auld clay biggin ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin.' 

To reconcile to our imagination the entrance of an aerial being 
into a mansion of this kind, required the powers of Burns — he, 
however succeeds. Coila enters, and her countenance, attitude, and 
gestures, unlike those of other spiritual beings, are distinctly por- 
trayed. To the painting on her mantle, on which is depicted the 
most striking scenery, as well as the most distinguished characters 
of his native country, some exceptions may be made. The mantle 
of Coila, like the cup of Thyrsis, and the shield of Achilles, is too 
much crowded with figures, and some of the objects represented 
upon it are scarcely admissable, according to the principles of de- 
sign. The generous temperament of Burns led him into these exu- 
berances. In his second edition he enlarged the number of figures 
originally introduced, that he might include objects to which he 
was originally attached by sentiments of affection, gratitude, or pa- 
triotism. The second Duan, or canto of this poem, in which Coila 
describes her own nature and occupations, particularly her super- 
intendence of his infant genius, and in which she reconciles him 
to the character of a bard, is an elevated and solemn strain of 
poetry, ranking in all respects, excepting the harmony of numbers, 
with the higher productions of the English muse. The concluding 
stanza, compared with that already quoted, will show to what a 
height Burns rises in this poem, from the point at which he set 
out : — 

1 And wear thou this '.'—she solemn said, 
And bound the holly round my head ; 
The polish'd leaves and berries red, 

Did rustling play , 
And, like a passing thought she fled 

In light away.' 

In various poems Burns has exhibited the picture of a mind 
under the deep impressions of real sorrow. The Lament, the Ode to 
Ruin, Despondency, and Winter, a Dirge, are of this character. In 
the first of these poems the eighth stanza, which describes a sleep- 
less night from anguish of mind, is particularly striking. Burns 
often indulged in those melancholy views of the nature and condi- 
tion of man, which are so congenial to the temperament of sensi- 
bility. The poem entitled Man was made to Mourn, affords an 
instance of this kind, and The Winter Night is of the same descrip- 
tion. The last is highly characteristic, both of the temper of mind, 
and of the condition of Burns. It begins with a description of a 
dreadful storm on a night in winter. The poet represents himself 
as lying in bed, and listening to its howling. In this situation, he 
naturally turns his thoughts to the ourie* Cattle, and the silly f 
Sheep, exposed to all the violence of the tempest. Having lamented 
their fate, he proceeds in the following : 

1 Ilk happing bird— wee helpless thing ! 
That in the merry months of spring, 

* Ourie, out-lying. Ourie Cattle, Cattle thatare unhoused all winter. 
J Sillj is in this, as in other places, a, term of compassion and endearment. 



118 LIFE OF 

Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy cluttering wing, 

An' close thy e'e !' 

Other reflections of the same nature occur to his mind ; and a3 
the midnight moon, " muffled with clouds," casts her dreary light 
on his window, thoughts of a darker and more melancholy nature 
crowd upon him. In this state of mind, he hears a voice pouring 
through the gloom, a solemn and plaintive strain of reflection. The 
mourner compares the fury of the elements with that of man to his 
brother man, and finds the former light in the balance, 

" See stern Oppression's iron grip, 

Or mad Ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

"Woe, want, 1 and murder, o'er the land." 

He pursues this train of reflection through a variety of particu- 
lars, in the course of which he introduces the following animated 
apostrophe : 

O ye ! who sink in beds of down, 

Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 

Think, for a moment, on his wretched iate, 

"Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Ill-satisfy 'd keen Nature's clanrrous call, 

Stretch'd on his straw he lays him down to sleep, 
While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 

Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap."' 

The strain of sentiment which runs through this poem is noble, 
though the execution is unequal, and the versification is defective. 

Among the serious poems of Burns, The Cotter's Saturday Night 
is perhaps entitled to the fir3t rank. The Farmers Ingle of Fergus- 
son evidently suggested the plan of this poem, as has been already 
mentioned ; but after the plan was formed, Burns trusted entirely 
to his own powers for the execution. Fergusson's poem is certainly 
very beautiful. It has all the charms which depend on rural cha- 
racters and manners happily portrayed, and exhibited under cir- 
cumstances highly grateful to the imagination. The Farmers Ingle 
begins with describing the return of evening. The toils of the day 
are over, and the farmer retires to his comfortable fire-side. The 
reception which he and his men-servants receive from the careful 
house- wife, is pleasingly described. After their supper is over, they 
begin to talk on the rural events of the day. 

" 'Bout kirk and market eke their tales gae on, 
/_ How Jock woo : d Jenny here to be his bride ; 
And there how Marion for a bastard son, 
Upon the cutty stool wa3 forced to ride, 
The tvaefu' scauld o' cur Mess John to bide. 

The " Gruidame" i3 next introduced as forming a circle round the 
fire, in the midst of her grand children, and while she spin3 from 
the rock, and the spindle plays on her " russet lap," she is relating 
to the young ones tale3 of witches and ghosts. The poet exclaims, 

" O mock na this my friends! but rather mourn, 
Ye in life's brav.est spring wi' reason clear, 

Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return, 
And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear ; 

The mind's aye cradl'd when the grave is near.'" 



ROBERT BURNS. 119 

In the meantime the farmer, wearied with the fatigues of the 
day, stretches himself at length on the settle, a sort of rustic couch, 
which extends on one side of the fire, and the cat and house-dog 
leap upon it to receive his caresses. Here, resting at his ease, he 
gives his directions to his men-servants for the succeeding day. The 
house- wife follows his example, and gives her orders to the maidens. 
By degrees the oil in the cruise begins to fail ; the fire runs low ; 
sleep steals on his rustic group ; and they move off to enjoy their 
peaceful slumbers. The poet concludes by bestowing his blessing 
on the " husbandman and all his tribe." 

This is an original and truly interesting pastoral. It possese3 
every thing required in this species of composition. We might 
have perhaps said, every thing that it admits, had not Burn's writ- 
ten his Cotters Saturday Night, 

The cottager returning from his labours, has no servants to ac- 
company him, to partake of his fare, or to receive his instructions, 
The circle which he joins, is composed of his wife and children only ; 
and if it admits of less variety, it affords an opportunity for repre- 
senting scenes that more strongly interest the affections. The 
younger children running to meet him, and clambering round his 
knee; the elder, returning from their weekly labours with the 
neighbouring farmers, dutifully depositing their little gains with 
their parents, and receiving their fathers blessing and instructions ; 
the incidents of the courtship of Jenny, their eldest daughter, "wo- 
man grown," are circumstances of the most interesting kind, which 
are most happy delineated ; and after their frugal supper, the repre- 
sensation of these humble cottagers forming a wider circle round 
their hearth, and uniting in the worship of God is a picture the 
most deeply affecting of any which the rural muse had ever pre- 
sented to the view. Burns was admirably adapted to this deline- 
ation. Like all men of genius he was of the temperament of devo- 
tion, and the powers of memory co-operated in this instance with the 
sensibility of his heart, and the fervour of his imagination. The 
Cotter's Saturday Night is tender and moral, it is solemn and devo- 
tional, and rises at length in a strain of grandeur and sublimity, 
which modern poetry has not surpassed. The noble sentiments of 
patriotism with which it concludes, correspond with the rest of the 
poem. In no age or country have the pastoral muses breathed such 
elevated accents, if the Messiah of Pope be excepted, which is in- 
deed a pastoral in form only. It is to be regretted that Burns did not 
employ his genius on other subjects of the same nature, which the 
manners and customs of the Scottish peasantry would have amply 
supplied. Such poetry is not to be estimated by the degree of plea- 
sure which it bestows; it sinks deeply into the heart, and is calcu- 
lated far beyond any other human means, for giving permanence to 
to the scenes and the characters it so exquisitely describes.* 

* A great number of manuscript poems were found among the papers of Burns, 
addressed to him by admirers of his genius, from different parts of Britain, as well 
as from Ireland and America. Among these was a poetical epistle from Mr. Tel- 
ford, of Shrewsbury, of superior meat. It was written in the dialect of Scotland 
(of which country Mr. Telford is a native.) and in the versification generally em- 
ployed by our poet himself. Its object is to recommend to him other subjects of 
a serious nature similar to that of the U Cotter's Saturday Night ;" and the reader 
will rind that the advice is happily enforced by example. It would have given the 
editor pleasure to have inserted the whole of his poem, which he hopes will one 



120 



LIFE OF 



Before we conclude, it will be proper to offer a few observations 
on the lyric productions of Burns. His compositions of this kind 
are chiefly songs, generally in the Scottish dialect, and always af- 
ter the model of the Scottish songs, on the general character and 
moral influence of which, some observations have already been of- 
fered. We may hazard a few more pec uliar remarks, 

day see the light ; he is happy to have obtained, in the mean time, his friend Mr. 
Telford's permission to insert the following extract : 

How placed along the sacred board, 
O Burns, thy happy style, 



Pursue 

" Those manner-painting strains," that 

while 
They bear me northward many a mile, 

Recal the days, 
When tender joys, with pleasing smile, 
Blest my young ways 

I see my fond companions rise, 

I join the happy village joys, 

I see our green hills touch the skies, 

And thro' the woods, ,- 
I hear the river's rushing noise, 

Its roaring floods* 
No distant Swiss with warmer glow, 
E'er heard his native music flow, 
Nor could his wishes stronger grow, 

Than still have mine 
When up this ancient mountf I go, 

With songs of thine. 
O happy Bard ! thy gen'rous flame, 
Was given to raise thy country's fame, 
F or this thy charming numbers came, 

Thy matchless lays ; 
Then sing and save her virtuous name, 

To latest days. 



But mony a theme awaits thy muse, 
Fine as thy cotter's sacred views, 
Then in such verse thy soul infuse, 

With holy air, 
And sing the course the pious choose, 

With all thy care. 
How with religious awe imprest, 
They open lay the guiltless breast, 
And youth and age with fears distrest, 

All due prepare, 
The symbols of eternal rest 

Devout to share §. 
How down ilk lang withdrawing hill, 
Successive crowds the valleys fill, 
While pure religious converse still 

Beguiles the way, 
And gives a cast to youthful will, 

To suit the day. 

*The banks of the Esk in Dumfries- 
shire, are here alluded to. 

T A beautiful little mount which stands 
immediately before, or rather forms a 
part of Shrewsbury castle, a seat of Sir 
William Pulteney, Bart. 

§The Sacrament, generally administer- 
ed in the country parishes of Scotland in 
the open air. 



Their hoary pastor's looks adored, 

His voice with peace andblessing stored, 

Sent from above ; 
And faith, and hope, and joy afford, 

And boundless love. 

O'er this, with warm seraphic glow, 
Celestial beings, pleased, bow, 
And, whispered, hear the holy vow, 

'Mid grateful tears ; 
And mark amid such scenes below, 

Their future peers. 



O mark the awful solemn scene !* 
When hoary winter clothes the plain, 
Along the snowy hills is seen 

Approaching slow, 
In mourning weeds, the village train, 

In silent woe. 
Some much-respected brother's bier, 
(By turns in pious task they share) 
With heavy hearts they forward bear 

Along the path ; 
Where nei'bours saw, in dusky air.t 

The light of death. 
And when they pass the rocky howe, 
Where binwood bushes o'er them flow, 
And move around the rising knowe, 

Where far away 
The kirkyard trees are seen to grow, 

By th' water brae. 

Assembled round the narrow gTave, 
While o'er them wintry tempests rave, 
In the cold wind their grey locks wave, 

As low they lay 
Their brother's body 'mongst the lave 

Of parent clay. 
Expressive looks from each declare 
The griefs within, their bosoms bear, 
One holy bow devout they share, 

Then home return, 
And think o'er all the virtues fair, 

Of him they mourn. 



Say how by early lessons taught, 
(Truth's pleasing air is willing caught) 
Congenial to th' untainted thought, 

The shepherd boy, 
Who tends his flocks on lonely height, 

Feels holy joy. 

* A Scottish funeral. 

t This alludes to a superstition preva- 
lent in Eskdale, and Annandale, that a 
light precedes in the night every funeral, 
marking the precise path it if to pas#. 






ROBERT BURKS. 



121 



Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scotland it is unnecessary to 
speak. Burns has no where imitated them, a circumstance to be 
regretted, since in this species of composition, from its admitting 
the more terrible, as well as the softer giaces of poetry, he was 
eminently qualified to have excelled. The Scottish songs which 
served as a model to Burns, are almost without exception pastoral, 
or rather rural. Such of them as are comic, frequently treat of a 
rustic courtship, or a country wedding : or they describe the dif- 
ferences of opinion which arise in married life. Burns has imitated 
this species, and surpassed his models. The song beginning, " Hus- 
band, husband, cease your strife," may be cited in support of this 
observation. His other comic songs are of equal merit. In the 
rural songs of Scotland, whether humorous or tender, the senti- 
ments are given to particular characters, and very generally, the 
incidents are referred to particular scenery. This last circumstance 
may be considered as a distinguishing feature of Scottish songs, and 
on it a considerable part of their attraction depends. On all occasions 
the sentiments, of whatever nature, are delivered in the character of 
the persons principally interested. If love be described, it is not as 



Is aught on earth so lovely known, 
On Sabbath morn, and far alone, 
His guileless soul all naked shown 

Before his God- 
Such pray'rs must "welcome reach the 
throne, 

And blest abode. 

O tell ! with what a heartfelt joy, 
The parent eyes the virtuous boy ; 
And all his constant, kind employ 

Is how to give 
The best of lear he can enjoy, 

As means to live. 

The parish-school, its curious site, 
The master who can clear indite, 
And lead him on to count and write, 

Demand thy care ; 
Nor pass the ploughman's school at night 

Without a share. 

Nor yet the tenty curious lad, 
Who o'er the ingle hings his head, 
And begs o' nerbours books to read ; 

For hence arise 
Thy country's sons, who far are spread, 

Baith bauld and wise. 



The bonny lasses as they spin 

Perhaps wi' Allan's sangs begin, 

How Tay and Tweed smooth flowing rin 

Thro' flowery hows ; 
"Where Shepherd-lads their sweethearts 
win 

"With earnest vows. 

Or may be, Burns, thy thrilling page 
May a' their virtuous thoughts engage, 



While playful youth and placid age 
In concert join, 

To bless the bard, who, gay or sage, 
Improves the mind. 

Long may their harmless, simple ways, 
Nature's own pure emotions raise : 
May still the dear romantic blaze 

Of purest love, 
Their bosoms warm to latest days, 

And aye improve. 

May still each fond attachment glow, 
O'er woods, o'er streams, o'er hills of 

snow : 
May ruggid rocks still dearer grow, 

And may their souls 
Even love the warlock glens which 
through 

The tempest howls. 

To eternize such themes as these. 
And all their happy manners seize, 
Will every virtuous bosom please, 

And high in fame 
To future times will justly raise 

Thy patriot name. 

"While all the venal tribes decay, 
That bask in flattery's flaunting ray, 
The noisome vermin of a day, 

Thy works shall gain 
O'er every mind a boundless sway, 

And lasting reign. 

When winter binds the harden'd plains* 
Around each hearth, the hoary swains 
Shall teach the rising youth thy strains, 

And anxious say, 
Our blessing with our sons remains, 

And Bubns's Lay! 



122 LIFE OF 

it is observed, but as it is felt ; and the passion is delineated un- 
der a particular aspect. Neither is it the fiercer impulses of de- 
sire that are expressed, as in the celebrated ode to Sappho, the 
model of so many modern songs ; but those gentler emotions of 
tenderness and affection, which do not entirely absorb the lover, 
but permit him to associate his emotions with the charms of ex- 
ternal nature, and breathe the accents of purity and innocence, as 
well as of love. In these respects the love songs of Scotland are 
honourably distinguished from the most admired classical compo- 
sitions of the same kind ; and by such associations, a variety as 
well as liveliness, is given to the representation of this passion, 
which are not to be found in the poetry of Greece and Rome, or 
perhaps of any other nation. Many of the love-songs of Scotland 
describe scenes of rural courtship ; many may be considered as in- 
vocations from their lovers to their mistresses. On such occasions a 
degree of interest and reality is given to the sentiment, by the 
spot destined to these happy interviews being particularized. The 
lovers perhaps meet at the Bush aboon Traquair, or on the Batiks 
of FAtricJc ; the nymphs are invoked to wander among the wilds of 
Roslin, or the woods of Invermay, nor is the spot merely pointed 
out ; the scenery is often described as well as the character, so as 
to represent a complete picture to the fancy. Thus the maxim of 
Horace, ut pictura pern's, is faithfully observed by these rustic 
bards, who are guided by the same impulse of nature and sensibility 
which influenced the father of epic poetry, on whose example the 
precept of the Roman poet was perhaps founded. By this means 
the imagination is employed to interest the feelings. When we do 
not conceive distinctly, we do not sympathize deeply in any human 
affection ; and we conceive nothing in the abstract. Abstraction, 
bo useful in morals and so essential in science, must be abandoned 
when the heart is to be subdued by the powers of poetry or of 
eloquence. The bards of a ruder condition of society paint indi- 
vidual objects ; and hence, among other causes, the easy access they 
obtain to the heart. Generalization is the vice of poets, whose learn- 
ing overpowers their genius ; of poets of a refined and scientific age. 
The dramatic style which prevails so much in the Scottish songs, 
while it contributes greatly to the interest they excite, also shows 
that they have originated among/ people in the earlier stages of 
society. Where this form of composition appears in songs of a 
modern date, it indicates that they have been written after the an- 
cient model. 

The Scottish song3 are of very unequal poetical merit, and thi3 
inequality often extends to the different parts of the same song. 
Those that are humorous, or characteristic of manners, have in 
general the merit of copying nature ; those that are serious are 
tender and often sweetly interesting, but seldom exhibit high pow- 
ers of imagination, which indeed do not easily find a place in this 
species of composition. The alliance of the words of the Scottish 
songs with the music has in some instances given to the former a 
popularity, which otherwise they would never have obtained. 

The association of words and the music of these songs with themore 
beautiful parts of the scenery of Scotland, contributes to the same 
effect. It hasgiven them not merely popularity, but permanance ; it 



ROBERT BURNS. 123 

has imparted to the works of man some portion of the durability of 
the works of nature. If, from our imperfect experience of the past 
we may judge with any confidence respecting the future, songs of 
this description are of all others the least likely to die. In the 
changes of language they may no doubt suffer change ; but the as- 
sociated strain of sentiment and of music will perhaps survive, 
while the clear stream sweeps down the vale of Yarrow, or the yel- 
low broom waves on the Cowden-knowes. 

The first attempts of Burns in song- writing were not very suc- 
cessful. His habitual inattention to the exactness of rhymes, and 
to the harmony of numbers, arising probably from the models on 
which his versification was formed, were faults likely to appear to 
more advantage in this species of composition, than in any other ; 
and we may also remark, that the strength of his imagination, and 
exuberance of his sensibility, were with difficulty restrained within 
the limits of gentleness, delicacy and tenderness, which seem to be 
assigned to the love-songs of his nation. Burns was better adapted 
by nature for following in such composition the model of the Gre- 
cian than of the Scottish muse. By study and practice he however 
surmounted all these obstacles. In his earlier songs there is some 
ruggedness; but this gradually disappears in his successive efforts ; 
and some of his later compositions of this kind may be compared, in 
polished delicacy, with the finest songs in our language, while in 
the eloquence of sensibility they surpass them all. 

The songs of Burns, like the models he followed and excelled, 
are often dramatic, and for the greater part amatory : and the beau- 
ties of rural nature are everywhere associated with the passions 
and emotions of the mind. Disdaining to copy the works of others, 
he has not, like some poets of great name, admitted into his de- 
scriptions exotic imagery. The landscapes he has painted, and the 
objects with which they are embelished, are, in every single in- 
stance, such as are to be found in his own country. In a moun- 
tainous region, especially when it is comparatively rude and naked, 
the most beautiful scenery will always be found in the valleys, and 
on the banks of the wooded streams. Such scenery is peculiarly 
interesting at the close of a summer day. As we advance north- 
wards, the number of the days of summer, indeed diminishes ; but 
from this cause, as well as from the mildness of the temperature, 
the attraction increases, and the summer night becomes still more 
beautiful. The greater obliquity of the sun's path in the ecliptic, 
prolongs the grateful season of twilight to the midnight hours, and 
the shades of the evening seem to mingle with the morning's dawn. 

The rural poets of Scotland, as may be expected, associate in their 
songs the expression of passion, with the most beautiful of their 
scenery, in the fairest season of the year, and generally in those 
hours of the evening when the beauties of nature are most inter- 
esting. 

To all these adventitious circumstances, on which so much of 
the effect of poetry depends, great attention is paid by Burns. 
There is scarcely a single song of his in which particular scenery is 
not described, or allusions made to natural objects, remarkable for 
beauty or interest ; and though hi3 descriptions are not so full as 
are sometimes met with in the older Scottish songs, they are in the 



124 LIFE OF 

highest degree appropriate and interesting. Instances in proof of 
this might be quoted from the Lea Rig, Highland Mary, the Sol- 
diers Return, Logan Water, from that beautiful pastoral, Bonnie 
Jean, and a great number of others. Occasionally the force of his 
genius carries him beyond the usual boundaries of Scottish song, 
and the natural objects introduced have more of the character of 
sublimity. An instance of this kind is noticed by Mr. Syme, and 
many others might be adduced. 

" Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing roar ; 

There would I weep my woes, 

There seek my last repose, 

Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more." 

In one song, the scene of which is laid in a winter night, the 
"wan moon" is described as "setting behind the white waves;" in 
another, the " storms" are apostrophized, and commanded to "rest 
in the cave of their slumbers." On several occasions, the genius 
of Burns loses sight entirely of his archetypes, and rises into a 
strain of uniform sublimity. Instances of this kind appear in 
Liberty, a Vision, and in his two war- songs, Bruce to his troops, and 
the Song of Death. These last are of a description of which we 
have no other in our language. The martial songs of our nation 
are not military, but naval. If we were to seek a comparison of 
these songs of Burns with others of a similar nature, we must have 
recourse to the poetry of ancient Greece, or of modern Gaul. 

Burns has made an important addition to the songs of Scotland. 
In his compositions, the poetry equals and sometimes surpasses the 
music. He has enlarged the poetical scenery of his country. 
Many of her rivers and mountains, formerly unknown to the muse, 
are now consecrated by his immortal verse. The Doon, the Lugar, 
the Ayr, the Nith, and the Cluden, will in future, like the Yarrow, 
the Tweed, and the Tay, be considered as classic streams, and their 
borders will be trod with new and superior emotions. 

The greater part of the songs of Burns were written after he re> 
moved into the county of Dumfries. Influenced, perhaps, by ha- 
bits formed in early life, he usually composed while walking in the 
open air. When engaged in writing these songs, his favourite walks 
were on the banks of the Nith, or the Cluden, particularly near 
the ruins of Lincluden Abbey ; and this beautiful scenery he has 
very happily described under various aspects, as it appears during 
the softness and serenity of evening, and during the stillness and 
solemnity of the moon-light night. 

There is no species of poetry, the productions of the drama not 
excepted, so much calculated to influence the morals, as well as the 
happiness of a people, as those popular verses which are associated 
with the national airs, and which being learnt in the years of in- 
fancy, make a deep impression on the heart before the evolution of 
the powers of the understanding. The compositions of Burns, of 
this kind, now presented in a collected form to the world, make a 
most important addition to the popular songs of his nation. Like 
all his other writings, they exhibit independence of sentiment; 
they are peculiarly calculated to increase those ties which bind 
generous hearts to their native soil, and to the domestic circle of 



EOBERT BURNS. 125 

their infancy : and to cherish those sensibilities which, under due 
restriction, form the purest happiness of our nature. If in his un- 
guarded moments he composed some songs on which this praise 
cannot be bestowed, let us hope that they will speedily be forgot- 
ten. In several instances, where Scottish airs were allied to words 
objectionable in point of delicacy, Burns has substituted others of 
a purer character. On such occasions, without changing the sub- 
ject, he has changed the sentiments. A proof of this may be seen 
in the air of John Anderson my Joe, which is now united to words 
that breathe a strain of conjugal tenderness, that is as higly moral 
as it is exquisitely affecting. 

Few circumstances could afford a more striking proof of the 
strength of Burns genius, than the general circulation of his poems 
in England, notwithstanding the dialect in which the greater part 
are written, and which might be supposed to render them here un- 
couth or obscure. In some instances he has used this dialect on 
subjects of a sublime nature; but in general he confines it to sen- 
timents or description of a tender or humorous kind ; and, where 
he rises in elevation of thought, he assumes a purer English style. 
The singular faculty he possessed of mingling in the same poem 
humorous sentiments and descriptions, with imagery of a sublime 
and terrific nature, enabled him to use this variety of dialect on 
some occasions with striking effect. His poem of Tarn o' Shanter 
affords an instance of this. There he passes from a scene of the 
lowest humour, to situations of the most awful and terrible kind. 
He is a musician that runs from the lowest to the highest of his 
keys ; and the use of the Scottish dialect enables him to add two 
additional notes to the bottom of his scale. 

Great efforts have been made by the inhabitants of Scotland, of 
the superior ranks, to approximate in their speech to the pure 
English standard ; and this has made it difficult to write in the 
Scottish dialect, without exciting in them some feelings of disgust, 
which in English are scarcely felt. An Englisman who understands 
the meaning of the Scottish words, is not offended, nay, on certain 
subjects, he is perhaps pleased with the rustic dialect, as he may be 
with the Dorick Greek of Theocritus. 

But a Scotchman inhabiting his own country, if a man of educa- 
tion, and more especially if a literary character, has banished such 
words from his writings, and has attempted to banish them from 
his speech ; and being accustomed to hear them from the vulgar 
daily, does not easily admit of their use in poetry, which require a 
style elevated and ornamental. A dislike of this kind is, however, 
accidental, not natural. It is of the species of disgust which we 
feel at seeing a female of high birth in the dress of a rustic ; which 
if she be really young and beautiful, a little habit will enable us to 
overcome. A lady who assumes such a dress puts her beauty, in- 
deed, to a severe trial. She rejects — she, indeed, opposes the influ- 
ence of fashion ; she, possibly, abandons the grace of elegant and 
flowing drapery ; but her native charms remain, the more striking, 
perhaps, because the less adorned ; and to these she trusts for fix- 
ing her empire on those affections over which fashion has no sway. 
If she succeeds, a new association arises. The dress of the beauti- 
ful rustic becomes itself beautiful, and establishes a new fashion 
for the young and the gay. And when, in after ages, the contem- 



126 



LIFE OF 



plative observer shall view her picture in the gallery that contain 
the portraits of the beauties of successive centuries, each in the 
dress of her repective day, her drapery will not deviate, more than 
that of her rivals, from the standard of his taste, and he will give 
the palm to her who excels in the lineaments of nature. 

Burns wrote professedly for the peasantry of his country, and by 
them their native dialect is universally relished. To a numerous 
class of the natives of Scotland of another description, it may also 
be considered as attractive in a different point of view. Estranged 
from their native soil, and spread over foreign lands, the idiom of 
their country unites with the sentiments and the descriptions on 
which it is employed, to recal to their minds the interesting scenes 
of infancy and youth — to awaken many pleasing, many tender re- 
collections. Literary men, residing at Edinburgh or Aberdeen, 
cannot judge on this point for one hundred and fifty thousand of 
their expatriated countrymen. 

To the use of the Scottish dialect in one species of poetry, the 
composition of songs, the taste of the public has been for some time 
reconciled. The dialect in question excels, as has already been ob- 
served, in the copiousness and exactness of its terms for natural 
objects ; and in pastoral or rural songs, it gives a Doric simplicity, 
which is very generally approved. Neither does the regret seem 
well founded which some persons of taste have expressed, that 
Burns used this dialect in so many other of his compositions. His 
declared purpose was to paint the manners of rustic life among his 
" humble compeers," and it is not easy to conceive, that this could 
have been done with equal humour and effect, if he had not adopt- 
ed their idiom. There are some, indeed, who will think the subject 
too low for poetry. Persons of this sickly taste will find their de- 
licacies consulted in many a polite and learned author ; let them 
not seek for gratification in the rough and vigorous lines, in the 
unbridled humour, or in the overpowering sensibility of this bard 
of nature. 

To determine the comparative merit of Burns would be no easy 
task. Many persons afterwards distinguished in literature, have 
been born in as humble a situation of life; but it would be difficult 
to find any other who while earning his subsistence by daily labour 
has written verses which have attracted and retained universal at- 
tention, and which are likely to give the author a permanent and 
distinguished place among the followers of the muses. If he is de- 
ficient in grace, he is distinguished for ease as well as energy; 
and these are indications of the higher order of genius. The father 
of epic poetry exhibits one of his heroes as excelling in strength, 
another in swiftness— to form his perfect warrior, these attributes 
are combined. Every species of intellectual superiority admits, 
perhaps, of a similar arrangement. One writer excels in force — 
another in ease ; he is superior to them both, in whom both these 
qualities are united. Of Homer himself it may be said, that like 
his own Achilles, he surpasses his competitors in mobility as well as 
strength. 

The force of Burns lay in the powers of his understanding, and 
in the sensibility of his heart ; and these will be found to infuse 
the living principle into all the works of genius which seem des- 
tined to immortality. His sensibility bad an uncommon range, 






ROBERT BURNS. 127 

He was alive to every species of emotion. He is one of the few 
poets that can be mentioned, who have at once excelled in humour, 
in tenderness, and in sublimity ; a praise unknown to the ancients, 
and which in modern times is only due to Ariosto, to Shakespeare, 
and perhaps to Voltaire. To compare the writings of the Scottish 
peasant with the works of these giants in literature, might appear 
presumptuous : yet it may be asserted that he has displayed the 
foot of Hercules. How near he might have approached them by 
proper culture, with lengthened years, and under happier auspices, 
it is not for us to calculate. But while we run over the melancholy 
story of his life, it is impossible not to heave a sigh at the asperity 
of his fortune ; and as we survey the records of his mind, it is easy 
to see, that out of such materials have been reared the fairest and 
the most durable of the monuments of genius. 



ON 

THE DEATH OF BURNS, 

BY MR. ROSCOE. 

A great number of poems have been written on the death of Burns, 
some of them of considerable poetical merit. To have subjoined 
all of them to the present edition, would have been to have en- 
larged it to another volume at least; and to have made a selection, 
would have been a task of considerable delicacy. 

The Editor, therefore, presents one poem only on this melancholy 
subject : a poem which has not before appeared in print. It is 
from the pen of one who has sympathized deeply in the fate of 
Burns, and will not be found unworthy of its author— the Bio- 
grapher of Lorenzo de 1 Medici. Of a person so well known, it is 
wholly unnecessary for the Editor to speak ; and, if it were neces- 
sary, it would not be easy for him to find language that would 
adequately express his respect and his affection. 

Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, 

Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red. 
But ah ! what poet now shall tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, 

That ever breath'd the soothing strain ! 

As green thy towering pines may grow, 

As clear thy streams may speed along, 
As bright thy summer suns may glow, 

As gaily charm thy feathery throng ; 
But now, unheeded is the song, 

And dull and lifeless all around, 
For his wild harp lies all unstrung, 

And cold the hand that waked its sound, 



128 ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 

What tho* thy vigorous offspring rise 

In arts, in arms, thy sons excel ; 
Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes, 

And health in every feature dwell ; 
Yet who shall now their praises tell, 

In strains impassion'd, fond, and free, 
Since he no more the song shall swell 

To love, and liberty, and thee. 

With step- dame eye and frown severe 

His hapless youth why didst thou view I 
For all thy joys to him were dear, 

And all his vows to thee were due ; 
Nor greater bless his bosom knew, 

In opening youth's delightful prime, 
Than when thy favouring ear he drew 

To listen to his chanted rhyme. 

Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 

To him were all with rapture fraught ; 
He heard with joy the tempest rise 

That waked him to sublimer thought ; 
And oft thy winding dells he sought, 

Where wild flow'rs pour'd their rathe perfume, 
And with sincere devotion brought 

To thee the summer's earliest bloom. 

But ah ! no fond maternal smile 

His unprotected youth enjoy'd, 
His limbs inur'd to early toil, 

His days with early hardships tried : 
And more to mark the gloomy void, 

And bid him feel his misery, 
Before his infant eyes would glide 

Day-dreams of immortality. 

Yet, not by cold neglect depress'd, 

With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, 
Sunk with the evening sun to rest, 

And met at morn his earliest smile. 
Waked by his rustic pipe, meanwhile 

The powers of fancy came along, 
And sooth'd his lengthened hours of toil, 

With native wit and sprightly song. 

— Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled, 

When vigorous health from labour springs, 
And bland contentment smooths the bed, 

And sleep his ready opiate brings ; 
And hovering round on airy wings 

Float the light forms of young desire, 
That of unutterable things 

The soft and shadowy hope inspire. 
Now spells of mightier power prepare, 

Bid brighter phantoms round him dance ; 
Let Flattery spread her viewless snare, 

And Fame attract his vagrant glance; 



ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 12£ 

Let sprightly Pleasure too advance, 

Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone, 
Till, lost in love's delirious trance, 

He scorns the joys his youth has known. 
Let Friendship pour her brightest blaze, 

Expanding all the bloom of soul ; 
And Mirth concentre all her rays, 

And point them from the sparkling bowl ; 
And let the careless moments roll 

In social pleasure unconfined, 
And confidence that spurns control 

Unlock the inmost springs of mind : 

And lead his steps those bowers among, 

Where elegance with splendour vies, 
Or Science bids her favour'd throng, 

To more refined sensations rise : 
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys, 

And freed from each laborious strife 
There let him learn the bliss to prize 

That waits the sons of polish'd life. 
Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high 

With every impulse of delight, 
Dash from his lips the cup of joy, 

And shroud the scene in shades of night ; 
And let Despair, with wizard light, 

Disclose the yawning gulf below, 
And pour incessant on his sight 

Her spectred ills and shapes of woe : 

And show beneath a cheerless shed, 

With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes, 
In silent grief where droops her head, 

The partner of his early joys ; 
And let his infants' tender cries 

His fond parental succour claim, 
And bid him hear in agonies 

A husband's and a father's name. 

'Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds ; 

His high reluctant spirit bends; 
In bitterness of soul he bleeds, 

Nor longer with his fate contends. 
An idiot laugh the welkin rends 

As genius thus degraded lies ; 
Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 

That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes. 

— Kear high thy bleak majestic hills, 

Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread, 
And Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 
But never more shall poet tread 

Thy airy height, thy woodland reign, 
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, 

That ever breath'd the soothing strain, jr 5 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 

op 

ROBERT BURNS. 



No I. 
TO A FEMALE FRIEND. 

WRITTEN ABOUT THE YEAR 1780. 

I verily believe, my dear E. that the pure genuine feelings of 
love, are as rare in the world as the pure genuine principles of 
virtue and piety. This, I hope, will account for the uncommon 
style of all my letters to you. By uncommon, I mean, their being 
written in such a serious manner, which, to tell you the truth, has 
made me often afraid lest you should take me for a zealous bigot, 
who conversed with his mistress as he would converse with his minis- 
ter. I don't know how it is, my dear ; for though, except your 
company, there is nothing on earth that gives me so much pleasure 
as writing to you, yet it never gives me those giddy raptures so 
much talked of among lovers. I have often thought, that if a well- 
grounded affection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis something ex- 
tremely akin to it. Whenever the thought of my E. warms my 
heart, every feeling of humanity, every principle of generosity, 
kindles in my breast. It extinguishes every dirty spark of malice 
and envy, which are but too apt to infest me. I grasp every crea- 
ture in the arms of universal benevolence, and equally participate 
in the pleasures of the happy, and symathise with the miseries of 
the unfortunate. I assure you, my dear, I often look up to the 
divine Disposer of events, with an eye ot gratitude for the blessing 
which I hope he intends to bestow on me, in bestowing you. I 
sincerely wish that he may bless my endeavours to make your life 
as comfortable and happy as possible, both in sweetening the rougher 
parts of my natural temper, and bettering the unkindly circum- 
stances of my fortune. This, my dear, is a passion, at least in my 
view, worthy of a man, and I will add, worthy of a Christian. The 
sordid earth-worn may profess love to a woman's person, whilst 
in reality, his affection is centered in her pocket ; and the slavish 
drudge may go a wooing as he goes to the horse-market, to choose 
one who is stout and firm, and, as we may say of an oldhorse, 
one who will be a good drudge and draw kindly. I disdain their 
dirty, puny ideas. I would be heartily out of humour with my- 
self, if I thought I were capable of having so poor a notion of 
the sex, which were designed to crown the pleasures of society. 
Poor devils ! I don't envy them their happiness who have such 
notions. For my part, I propose quite other pleasures with my 
dear partner. * * * * * * 



LETTERS. 131 

No. II. 

TO THE SAME. 

MY DEAR E. 

I do not remember in the course of your acquaintance and mine, 
ever to have heard your opinion on the ordinary way of falling in 
love, amongst people of our station of life : I do not mean the per- 
sons who proceed in the way of bargain, but those whose affection 
is really placed on the person. 

Though I be, as you know very well, but a very awkward lover 
myself, yet as I have some opportunities of observing the conduct 
of others who are much better skilled in the affair of courtship 
than I am, I often think it is owing to lucky chance more than to 
good management, that there are not more unhappy marriages 
than usually are. 

It is natural for a young fellow to like the acquaintance of the 
females, and customary for him to keep them company when occa- 
sion serves; some one of them is more agreeable to him than the 
rest ; there is something, he knows not what, pleases him, he knows 
not how, in her company. This I take to be what is called love 
with the greatest part of us, and I must own, my dear E. it is a hard 
game such a one as you have to play when you meet with such a 
lover. You cannot refuse but he is sincere, and yet though you 
use him ever so favourably, perhaps in a few months, or at farthest 
in a year or two, the same unaccountable fancy may make him as 
distractedly fond of another, whilst you are quite forgot. I am 
aware, that perhaps the next time I have the pleasure of seeing 
you, you may bid me take my own lesson home, and tell me that 
the passion I have professed for you is perhaps one of those transient 
flashes I have been describing ; but I hope my dear E. you will do 
me the justice to believe me, when 1 assure you, that the love I 
have for you is founded on the sacred principles of virtue and ho- 
nour, and by consequence, so long as you continue possessed of 
those amiable qualities which first inspired my passion for you, so 
long must I continue to love you. Believe me, my dear, it is love 
like this alone which can render the married state happy. People 
may talk of flames and raptures as long as they please ; and a warm 
fancy with a flow of youthful spirits, may make them feel some' 
thing like what they describe ; but sure I am, the nobler faculties 
of the mind, with kindred feelings of the heart, can only be the 
foundation of friendship, and it has always been my opinion, that 
the married life was only friendship in a more exalted degree. 

If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, and it should please 
providence to spare us to the latest periods of life, I can look for- 
ward and see, that even then, though bent down with wrinkled 
age ; even then, when all other worldly circumstances will be in- 
different to me, I will regard my E. with the tenderest affection, 
and for this plain reason, because she is still possessed of those noble 
qualities, improved to a much higher degree, which first inspired 
my affection for her. 

' O ! happy state, when souls each other draw 
When love is liberty, and nature law/ 

I know, were I to speak in such a stylo to many a girl who thinks 



.32 



BURNS 5 WORKS. 



herself possessed of no small share of sense, she would think it ridi- 
culous—but the language of the heart is, my dear E., the only 
courtship I shall ever use to you. 

When I look over what I have written, I am sensible it is vastly 
different from the ordinary style of courtship — but I shall make no 
apology — I know your good nature will excuse what your good 
sense may see amiss. 



tfo. III. 



TO THE SAME. 

MY DEAR E. 

I have often thought it a peculiarly unlucky circumstance in love, 
that though, in every other situation in life, telling the truth if 
not only the safest, but actually by far the easiest way of pro- 
ceeding, a lover is never under greater difficulty in acting, or 
more puzzled for expression, than when his passion is sincere 
and his intentions are honourable. I do not think that it is 
very difficult for a person of ordinary capacity to talk of love and 
fondness, which are not felt, and to make vows of constancy and 
fidelity, which are never intended to be performed, if he be villain 
enough to practise such detestable conduct : but to a man whose 
heart glows with the principles of integrity and truth ; and who 
sincerely loves a woman of amiable person, uncommon refinement 
of sentiment, and purity of manners — to such a one, in such cir- 
cumstances, I can assure you, my dear, from my own feelings at 
this present moment, courtship is a task indeed. There is such 
number of foreboding fears, and distrustful anxieties crowd into 
my mind when I am in your company, or when I sit down to write 
to you, that what to speak or what to write I am altogether at a 
loss. 

There is one rule which I have hitherto practised, and which 
shall invariably keep with you, and that is, honestly to tell you 
the plain truth. There is something so mean and unmanly in the 
arts of dissimulation and falsehood, that I am surprised they can be 
used by any one in so noble, so generous a passion as virtuous love. 
No, my dear E., I shall never endeavour to gain your favour by 
such detestable practices. If you will be so good and so generous as 
to admit me for your partner, your companion, your bosom friend 
through life ; there is nothing on this side of eternity shall give me 
greater transport ; but I shall never think of purchasing your hand 
by any arts unworthy of a man, and I will add, of a Christian. 
There is one thing, my dear, which I earnestly request of you, and 
it is this ; that you would soon, either put an end to my hopes by a 
peremptory refusal, or cure me of my fears by a generous consent. 

It would oblige me much if you would send me a line or two 
when convenient. I shall only add further, that if a behaviour re- 
gulated (though perhaps but very imperfectly,) by the rule3 of 
honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to love and esteem you, and 
an earnest desire to promote your happiness ; and if these are qua- 
lities you would wish in a friend, in a husband, T hope you shall 
ever find them in your real friend and sincere lover. 



LETTERS. 



133 



£To. IY. 

TO THE SAME. 

I ought in good manners to have acknowledged the receipt of your 
letter before this time, but my heart was so shocked with the con- 
tents of it, that I can scarcely yet collect my thoughts so as to write 
to you on the subject. I will not attempt to describe what I felt 
on receiving your letter. I read it over and over, again and again, 
and though it was in the politest language of refusal, still it was 
peremptory; "you were sorry you could not make me a return, 
but you wish me" what, without you I never can obtain, "you 
wish me all kind of happiness." It would be weak and unmanly to 
say, that without you I never can be happy ; but sure I am, that 
sharing life with you, would have given it a relish, that wanting 
you, I never can taste. 

Your uncommon personal advantages, and your superior good 
sense, do not so much strike me ; these, possibly in a few instances 
may be met with in others ; but that amiable goodness, that tender 
feminine softness, that endearing sweetness of disposition, with all 
the charming offspring of a warm feeling heart — these I never 
again expect to meet with in such a degree in this world. All 
these charming qualities, heightened by an education much beyond 
any thing I have ever met with in any woman I ever dared to ap- 
proach, have made an impression on my heart that I do not think 
the world can ever efface. My imagination has fondly flattered it- 
self with a wish, I dare not say it ever reached a hope, that possibly 
I might one day call you mine. I had formed the most delightful 
images, and my fancy fondly brooded over them ; but no w I am 
wretched for the loss of what I really had no right to expect. I 
must now think no more of you as a mistress, still I presume to ask 
to be admitted as a friend. As such I wish to be allowed to wait 
on you, and as I expect to remove in a few days a little farther off, 
and you, 1 suppose, will perhaps soon leave this place, I wish to see 
you or hear from you soon ; and if an expression should perhaps es- 
cape me rather too warm for friendship, I hope you will pardon it 
in, my dear Miss , (pardon me the dear expression for once.)* * 



No. Y. 
TO ME. JOHJST MURDOCH. 

SCHOOLMASTER, 

STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 

DEAR SIR, Lochlee, 15th January, 1783. 

As I have an opportunity of sending you a letter, without putting 
you to that expense which any production of mine would but ill 
repay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that I have not for- 
gotten, nor ever will forget, the many obligations I lie under to 
your kindness and friendship. 

I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to know what has been the 
result of all the pains of an indulgent father, and a masterly teach- 
er | and I wish I could gratify your curiosity with such a recital as 



134 BURNS' WORKS. 

you would be pleased with ; but that is what I am afraid will not 
be the case. I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious habits ; 
and in this respect, I hope, my conduct will not disgrace the edu- 
cation I have gotten ; but as a man of the world, I am most misera- 
bly deficient. — One would have thought, that bred as I have been, 
under a father who has figured pretty well as un homme des affaires, 
I might have been what the world calls a pushing, active fellow ; 
but, to tell you the truth, Sir, there is hardly any thing more my 
reverse. I seem to be one sent into the word to see, and observe ; 
and I very easily compound with the knave who tricks me of my 
money, if there be any original about him which shows me human 
nature in a different light from any thing I have seen before. In 
short, the joy of my heart is to M study men, their manners, and 
their ways;" and for this darling subject, I cheerfully sacrifice 
every other consideration. I am quite indolent about those 
great concerns that set the bustling busy sons of care agog; 
and if I have to answer for the present hour, I am very easy 
with regard to any thing further. Even the last, worst shift,* 
of the unfortunate and the wretched, does not much terrify me : I 
know that even then my talent for what country folks call " a sen- 
sible crack," when once it is sanctified by a hoary head, would pro- 
cure me so much esteem, that even then — I would learn to be 
happy. However, I am under no apprehension about that ; for, 
though indolent, yet, so far as an extremely delicate constitution 
permits, I am not lazy ; and in many things, especially in tavern 
matters, I am a strict economist ; not indeed for the sake of the 
money, but one of the principal parts in my composition is a kind 
of pride of stomach, and I scorn to fear the face of any man living ; 
above every thing, I abhor as hell, the idea, of sneaking in a corner 
to avoid a dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in my 
heart I despise and detest. "lis this, and this alone, that en- 
dears economy to me. In the matter of books, indeed, I am very 
profuse. My favourite authors are of the sentimental kind, such 
as Shenstone, particularly his Elegies : Thomson ; Man of Feeling, 
a book I prize next to the Bible ; Man of the World ; Sterne, espe- 
cially his Sentimental Journey ; Macpherson, Ossian, &c. These are 
the glorious models after which I endeavour to form my conduct ; 
and 'tis incongruous, 'tis absurd, to suppose that the man whose 
mind glows with sentiments lightened up at their sacred flame — 
the man whose heart distends with benevolence to all the human 
race — he " who can soar above this little scene of things," can he 
descend to mind the paltry concerns about which the terrsefilial 
race fret, and fume, and vex themselves ? how the glorious tri- 
umph swells my heart ! I forget that I am a poor insignificant 
devil, unnoticed and unknown, stalking up and down fairs and 
markets, when I happen to be in them, reading a page or two of 
mankind, and " catching the manners living as they rise," whilst 
the men of business jostle me on every side as an idle encumbrance 
in their way.— But I dare say I have by this time tired your 
patience ; so I shall conclude with begging you to give Mrs. Mur- 
doch—not my compliments, for that is a mere common-place story, 

* The last shift alluded to here, r&u3t he the condition of an itinerant beggar. 



LETTERS. 135 

but my warmest, kindest wishes for her welfare ; and accept of the 
same for yourself, from, 

Dear Sir, 

Yours, &c. 



No. YL 
[The following is taken from the MS. prose presented by our Bard to Mb. Riddel.] 

On rummaging over some old papers, I lighted on a MS. of my early 
years, in which I had determined to write myself out, as I was 
placed by fortune among a class of men to whom my ideas would 
have been nonsense. I had meant that the book should have lain 
by me, in the fond hope that, some time or other, even after I 
was no more, my thoughts would fall into the hands of somebody 
capable of appreciating their value. It sets off thus : 

Observations , Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poetry, &c. by JR. J5. — a man 
who had little art in making money, and still less in keeping it ; 
but was, however, a man of some sense, and a great deal of honesty, 
and unbounded good- will to every creature, rational and irrational. 
As he was but little indebted to scholastic education, and bred at a 
plough-tail, his performances must be strongly tinctured with his 
unpolished rustic way of life ; but as I believe they are really his 
oivn, it may be some entertainment to a curious observer of human 
nature, to see how a ploughman thinks and feels, under the pres- 
sure of love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with the like cares and pas- 
sions, which, however diversified by the modes and manners of life, 
operate pretty much alike I believe, on all the species. 

" There are numbers in the world who do not want sense to make 
a figure, so much as an opinion of their own abilities, to put them 
upon recording their own observations, and allowing them the 
same importance which they do to those which appear in print." — 
Shenstonb. 

" Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace 
The forms our pencil, or our pen designed ! 

Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, 
Such the soft image of our youthful mind.''-— Ibid. 

April, 1793. 
Notwithstanding all that has been said against love, respecting 
the folly and weakness it leads a young inexperienced mind into ; 
still I think it in a great measure deserves the highest encomiums 
that have been passed on it. If any thing on earth deserves the 
name of rapture or transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen, in 
the company of the mistress of his heart, when she repays him with 
an equal return of affection. 

August. 
There is certainly some connection between love, and music, and 
poetry ; and, therefore, I have always thought a fine touch of na- 
ture, that passage in a modern love composition : 

" As tow'rd her cot he jogg'd along, 
Her name was frequent in his song."' 

For my own part, I never had the least thought or inclination of 



136 burns' works. 

turning poet, till I once got heartily in love ; and then rhyme and 
song were, in a manner, the spontaneous language of my heart. 

September. 
I entirely agree with that judicious philosopher, Mr. Smith, in 
his excellent Theory of Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most 
painful sentiment that can embitter the human bosom. Any or- 
dinary pitch of fortitude may bear up tolerably well, under those 
calamities, in the procurement of which we ourselves have had no 
hand ; but when our follies or crimes have made us miserable and 
wretched, to bear up with manly firmness, and at the same time 
have a proper penitential sense of our misconduct, is a glorious ef- 
fort of self command. 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish, 

Beyond comparison the wor*t are those 

That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 

In every other circumstance the mind 

Has this to say — " It was no deed of mine;" 

But when to all the evil of misfortune 

This sting is added—" Blame thy foolish self! " 

Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 

The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt — 

Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others; 

The young, the innocent, who fondly loved us. 

Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin ! 

O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments, 

There's not a keener lash ! 

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 

Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime 

Can reason down its agonising throbs ; 

And, after proper purpose of amendment, 

Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace ! 

O, happy ! happy ! enviable man ! 

O glorious magnanimity of soul. 

March, 1784. 

I have often observed, in the course of my experience of human 
life, that every man, even the worst, has something good about 
him ; though very often nothing else than a happy temperament 
of constitution inclining him to this or that virtue. For this rea- 
son, no man can say. in what degree any other person, besides him- 
self, can be, with strict justice, called wicked. Let any of the strict- 
est character for regularity of conduct among us, examine impar- 
tially bow many vices he has never been guilty of, not from any 
care or vigilance, but for want of opportunity, or some accidental 
circumstance intervening; how many of the weaknesses of man- 
kind he has escaped, because he was out of the line of such tempta- 
tion ; and, what often, if not always weighs more than all the 
rest, how much he is indebted to the world's good opinion, because 
the world does not know all : I say, any man who can thus think, 
will scan the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, of mankind around 
him, with a brother's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance of that part of mankind 
commonly known by the ordinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes 
farther than was consistent with the safety of my character; those 
who, by thoughtless prodigality or headstrong passions, have been 
driven to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay, sometimes 
" ffcined with guilt, "***** 



* ». 



LETTERS. 137 

I have yet found among them, in not a few instances, some of the 
noblest virtues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested friendship, 
and even modesty. 



April, 
As I am what the men of the world, if they know such a man, 
would call a whimsical mortal, I have various sources of pleasure 
and enjoyment, which are, in a manner, peculiar to myself, or 
some here and there such other out- of the way person. Such i3 the 
peculiar pleasure I take in the season of winter, more than the rest 
of the year. This, I believe, may be partly owing to my mis- 
fortunes giving my mind a melancholy cast ; but there is some- 
thing in the 

" Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 

Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth,"— 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, favourable to every 
thing great and noble. There is scarcely any earthly object gives 
me more — I do not know if I should call it pleasure — but some- 
thing which exalts me, something which enraptures me — than to 
walk in the sheltered side of the wood, or high plantation, in a 
cloudy winter-day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the 
trees, and raving over the plain. It is my best season for devotion ; 
my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him, who, in the 
pompous language of the Hebrew bard, " walks on the wings of the 
wind." In one of these seasons, just after a train of misfortunes, I 
composed the following : 

The wintry west extends his blast, &c. 

See Songs. 

Shenstone finally observes, that love- verses, writ without any 
real passion, are the most nauseous of all conceits ; and I have 
often thought that no man can be a proper critic of love- compo- 
sition, except he himself, in one or more instances, have been a 
warm votary of this passion. As I had been all along a miserable 
dupe to love, and have been led into a thousand weaknesses and 
follies by it, for that reason I put the more confidence in my critical 
skill, in distinguishing foppery, and conceit, from zeal passion and 
nature. Whether the following song will stand the test, I will not 
pretend to say, because it is my own ; only I can say it was at the 
time, genuine from the heart. 

Behind yon hills, &c. 

See Songs. 
I think the whole species of young men may be naturally enough 
divided into two grand classes, which I shall call the grave and the 
merry : though, by the bye, these terms do not with propriety 
enough express my ideas. The grave I shall cast into the usual 
division of those who are goaded on by the love of money, and 
whose darling wish is to make a figure in the world. The merry 
are, the men of pleasure of all denominations; the jovial lads, 
who have too much fire and spirit to have any settled rule of ac- 
tion : but without much deliberation, follow the strong impulses 
of nature; the thoughtless, the careless, the indolent — in particular 



138 BURNS WORKS. 

he, who, with a happy sweetness of natural temper, and a cheerful 
vacancy of thought, steals through life — generally, indeed, in po- 
verty and obscurity ; but poverty and obscurity are only evils to 
him who can sit gravely down and make a repining comparison be- 
tween his own situation and that of others ; and lastly to grace the 
quorum, such are, generally, those whose heads are capable of all 
the towerings of genius, and whose hearts are warmed with all the 

delicacy of feeling. 

* « * * * 

As the grand end of human life is to cultivate an intercourse 
with that Being to whom we owe life, with every enjoyment that 
can render life delightful ; and to maintain an integritive conduct 
towards our fellow- creatures, that so, by forming piety and virtue 
into habit, we may be fit members for the society of the pious and 
the good, which reason and revelation teach us to expect beyond 
the grave : I do not see that the turn of the mind, and pursuits of 
any son of poverty and obscurity, are in the least more inimical to 
the sacred interests of piety and virtue, than the even lawful, 
bustling and straining after the world's riches and honours ; and 1 
do not see, but that he may gain Heaven as well (which, by ihe bye, 
is no mean consideration), who steals through the vale of life amus- 
ing himself with every little flower that fortune throws in his way ; 
as he who, coming straight forward, and perhaps bespattering all 
about him, gains some of life's little eminences ; where, after all, 
he can only see and be seen, a little more conspicuously, than what, 
in the pride of his heart, he is apt to term the poor, indolent devil 

he has left behind him. 

***** 

There is a noble sublimity, a heart-rending tenderness, in some of 
our ancient ballads, which shows them to be the work of a masterly 
hand ; and it has often given me many a heart-ache to reflect, that 
such glorious old bards — bards who very probably owed all their 
talents to native genius, yet have described the exploits of heroes, 
the pangs of disappointment, and the meltings of love, with such 
fine strokes of nature — that their very names (0 how mortifying to 
a bard's vanity ) are now " buried among the wreck of things which 
were." 

O ye illustrious names unknown ! who could feel so strongly and 
describe so well ; the last, the meanest of the muses' train — one 
who, though far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your path, and 
with a trembling wing would sometimes soar after you — a poor 
rustic bard unknown, pays this sympathetic pang to your memory ! 
Some of you tell us, with all the charms of verse, that you have 
been unfortunate in the world — unfortunate in love : he too has 
felt the loss of his little fortune, the loss of friends, and, worse than 
all, the loss of the woman he adored. Like you, all his consolation 
was his muse. She taught him in rustic measures to complain. — 
Happy could he have done it with your strength of imagination 
and flow of verse. May the turf lie lightly on your bones ! and 
may you now enjoy that solace and rest which this world seldom 
gives to the heart, tuned to all the feelings of poesy and love I 
*' # * # * 



LETTERS. 139 

This is all worth quoting in my MSS., and more than alL 

R. B. 



No. VII. 
TO MR. AIKEN. 

[The Gentleman to whom the Cotter's Saturday Night is addressed.] 

Sir, Ayrshire, 1786. 

I was with Wilson my printer, t'other day, and settled all our by- 
gone matters between us. After I had paid him all demands, I 
made him an offer of the second edition, on the hazard of being 
paid out of the first and readiest, which he declines. By his ac- 
count, the paper of a thousand copies would cost about twenty- 
seven pounds, and the printing about fifteen or sixteen : he offers 
to agree to this for the printing, if I will advance for the paper ; 
but this, you know, is out of my power ; so farewell hopes of a se- 
cond edition till I grow richer ! — an epocha which, I think, will 
arrive at the payment of the British national debt. 

There is scarcely any thing hurts me so much in being disap« 
pointed of my second edition, as not having it in my power to show 
my gratitude to Mr. Ballantyne, by publishing my poem of The 
Brigs of Ayr, 1 would detest myself as a wretch, if I thought I 
were capable, in a very long life, of forgetting the honest, warm, 
and tender delicacy with which he enters into my interests. I am 
sometimes pleased with myself in my grateful sensations ; but I 
believe, on the whole, I have very little merit in it, as my grati- 
tude is not a virtue, the consequence of reflection, but sheerly the 
instinctive emotion of a heart too inattentive to allow worldly 
maxims and views to settle into selfish habits. 

I have been feeling all the various rotations and movements 
within, respecting the excise. There are many things plead strongly 
against it ; the uncertainty of getting soon into business, the con- 
sequences of my follies, which may perhaps make it impracticable 
for me to stay at home ; and besides, I -have for some time been 
pining under secret wretchedness, from causes which you pretty 
well know — the pang of disappointment, the sting of pride, with 
some wandering stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on my 
vitals like vultures, when attention is not called away by the calls 
of society or the vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of social 
mirth, my gaiety is the madness of an intoxicated criminal under 
the hands of the executioner. All these reasons urge me to go 
abroad ; and to all these reasons I have only one answer — the feel- 
ings of a father. This, in the present mood I am in, overbalances 

every thing that can be laid in the scale against it. 
* * * * * 

You may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy, but it is a sen- 
timent which strikes home to my very soul : though sceptical, in 
some points, of our current belief, yet, I think, I have every evi- 
dence for the reality of a life beyond the stinted bourne of our 
present existence ; if so, then how should I, in the presence of that 
tremendous Being, the Author of existence how should I meet the 
reproaches of those who stand to me in the dear relation of children, 



140 burns' works. 

whom I deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless infancy 1 O, 
thou great unknown Power ! thou Almighty God ! who hast lighted 
up reason in my breast, and blessed me with immortality ! I have 
frequently wandered from that order and regularity necessary for 
the perfection of thy works, yet thou hast never left me nor for- 
saken me ! 

***** 

Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen something of the 
storm of mischief thickening over my folly-devoted head. Should 
yoUj my friends, my benefactors,, be successful in your applications 
for me, perhaps it may not be in my power in that way to reap 
the fruit of your friendly efforts. What I have written in the pre- 
ceding pages is the settled tenour of my resolution ; but should 
inimical circumstances forbid me closing with your kind offer, or, 

enjoying it, only threaten to entail farther misery — 
* * * 

To tell the truth, I have little reason for this last complaint, as 
the world in general has been kind to me, fully up to my deserts. 
I was, for some time past, fast getting into the pining distrustful 
snarl of the misanthrope. I saw myself alone, unfit for the strug- 
gle of life, shrinking at every rising cloud in the chance- directed 
atmosphere of fortune, while, all defenceless, 1 looked about in vain 
for a cover. It never occurred to me, at least never with the force 
it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man a creature des- 
tined for progressive struggle ; and that, however I might possess a 
warm heart and inoffensive manners (which last, by the bye, was 
rather more than I could well boast,) still more than these passive 
qualities, there was something to be done. When all my school- 
fellows and youthful compeers (those misguided few excepted, who 
joined, to use a Gentoo phrase, the hallachores of the human race), 
were striking off with eager hope and earnest intent on some one 
or other of the many paths of busy life, I was "standing idle in 
the market-place," or left the chase of the butterfly from flower to 
flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. 

-St • Jit 



* 

* 



You see, Sir, that if to know one's errors were a probability of 
mending them, I stand a fair chance ; but according to the reverend 
Westminster divines, though conviction must precede conversion, 
it is very far from always implying it. 



No. VIII. 

TO MKS. DUNLOP, OF DUN LOP. 

madam, Ayrshire, 1786. 

I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when 1 was so much 
honoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more 
by the handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic 
abilities. I am fully persuaded that there is not any class of man- 
kind so feelingly alive to the titillations of applause as the sons of 
Parnassus; nor is it easy to eonceive how the heart of the poor bard 
dances with rapture, when those whose character in life gives them 
a right to be polite judges, honour him with their approbation. 



LETTERS. 141 

Had you been throughly acquainted with me, Madam, you could 
not have touched my darling heart-chord more sweetly than notic- 
ing my attempts to celebrate your illustrious ancestor the Saviour 
of his country. 

" Great patriot hero ! ill requited chief !" 

The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with 
pleasure, was The Life of Hannibal ; the next was The History of 
Sir William Wallace: for several of my earlier years 1 had few 
other authors ; and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the 
laborious vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their glorious 
but unfortunate stories. In these boyish days I remember in par- 
ticular being struck with that part of Wallace's story where these 
lines occur — 

1 Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat.' 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allow- 
ed, and walked half a dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leg- 
len wood, with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to 
Loretto ; and, as I explored every den and dell where I could sup- 
pose my heroic countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for even 
then I was a rhymer), that my heart glowed with a wish to be able 
to make a song on him in some measure equal to his merits. 



No. IX. 
TO MES. STEWART, OF STAIR. 

Madam, 1786. 

The hurry of my preparations for going abroad has hindered me 
from performing my promise so soon as I intended. I have here 
sent you a parcel of songs, &c. which never made their appearance, 
except to a friend or two at most. Perhaps some of them may be 
no great entertainment to you : but of that I am far from being an 
adequate judge. The song to the tune of Ettrick Banks, you will 
easily see the impropriety of exposing much even in manuscript. I 
think, myself, it has some merit, both as a tolerable description of 
one of Nature's sweetest scenes, a July evening, and one of the 
finest pieces of Nature's workmanship, the finest indeed we know 
any thing of, an amiable, beautiful young woman ; but I have no 
common friend to procure me that permission, without which I 
would not dare to spread the copy. 

I am quite aware, madam, what task the world would assign me 
in this letter. The obscure bard, when any of the great condescend 
to take notice of him, should heap the altar with the incense of 
flattery. Their high ancestry, their own great and godlike quali- 
ties and actions, should be recounted with the most exaggerated 
description. This, madam, is a task for which I am altogether un- 
fit. Besides a certain disqualifying pride of heart, I know nothing 
of your connections in life, and have no access to where your real 
character is to be found— the company of your compeers: and more, 
I am afraid that even the most refined adulation is by no means the 
road to your good opinion. 

One feature of jour character I shall eyer with grateful pleasure 



142 burns' works. 

remember — the reception I got, when I had the honour of waiting 
on you at Stair. I am little acquainted with politeness ; but 1 
know a good deal of benevolence of temper and goodness of heart. 
Surely, did those in exalted stations know how happy they could 
make some classes of their inferiors by condescension and affability, 
they would never stand so high, measuring out with every look the 
height of their elevation, but condescend as sweetly as did Mrs. 
Stewart of Stair. 

No. X. 
DR. BLACKLOCK 

TO 

THE REVEREND MR. G. LOWRIE. 

Reverend and deab sir, 
I ought to have acknowledged your favour long ago, not only as a 
testimony of your kind remembrance, but as it gave me an oppor- 
tunity of sharing one of the finest, and, perhaps, one of the mo9t 
genuine entertainments, of which the human mind is susceptible. 
A number of avocations retarded my progress in reading the poems ; 
at last, however, I have finished that pleasing perusal. Many in- 
stances have 1 seen of Nature's force and beneficence exerted under 
numerous and formidable disadvantages; but none equal to that 
with which you have been kind enough to present me. There is a 
pathos and delicacy in his serious poems, a vein of wit and humour 
in those of a more festive turn, which cannot be too much admired, 
nor too warmly approved ; and I think I shall never open the book 
without feeling my astonishment renewed and increased. It was 
my wish to have expressed my approbation in verse ; but whether 
from declining life, or a temporary depression of spirits, it is at 
present out of my power to accomplish that agreeable intention. 

Mr. Stewart, Professor of Morals in this University, had formerly 
read me three of the poems, and I had desired him to get my name 
inserted among the subscribers ; but whether this was done, or not, 
I never could learn. I have little intercourse with Dr. Blair, but 
will take care to have the poems communicated to him by the in- 
tervention of some mutual friend. It has been told me by a gen- 
tleman, to whom I showed the performances, and who sought a 
copy with diligence and ardour, that the whole impression is al- 
ready exhausted. It were, therefore, much to be wished, for 
the sake of the young man, that a second edition, more numer- 
ous than the former, could immediately be printed ; as it appears 
certain that its intrinsic merit, and the exertion of the author's 
friends, might give it a more universal circulation than anything of 
the kind which has been published within my memory. 



No. XI. 

FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFORD. 

SIR, Edinburgh, 4th December, 1786. 

I received your letter a few day's ago. 1 do not pretend to much 

interest, but what I have I shall be ready to exert in procuring 



LETTERS. 143 

the attainment of any object you have in view. Your character as 
a man (forgive my reversing the order), as well as a poet, entitle 
you, I think, to the assistance of every inhabitant of Ayrshire. I 
have been told you wished to be made a guager ; I submit to your 
consideration, whether it would not be more desirable, if a sum 
could be raised by subscription, for a second edition of your poems, 
to lay it out in the stocking of a small farm. I am persuaded it 
would be a line of life, much more agreeable to your feelings, and 
in the end more satisfactory. When you have considered this, let 
me know, and whatever you determine upon, I will endeavour to 
promote as far as my abilities will permit. With compliments to 
my friend the doctor. I am, 

Your friend and well-wisher, 
JOHN WHITEFOKD. 
P. S. — I shall take it a9 a favour when you at any time send me 
a new production. 

No. XII. 
FROM 



Dear Sir, 22d December, 1786. 

I east week received a letter from Dr. Blacklock, in which he ex- 
presses a desire of seeing you. I write this to you, that you may 

lose no time in waiting upon him, should you not have seen him. 
* * * * 

I rejoice to hear, from all corners, of your rising fame, and I wish 
and expect it may tower still higher by the new publication. But, 
as a friend, I warn you to prepare to meet with your share of detrac- 
tion and envy — a train that always accompany great men. For your 
comfort, I am in great hopes that the number of your friends and ad- 
mirers will increase, and that you have some chance of ministerial, 
or even • • • • patronage. Now, my friend, such rapid suc- 
cess is very uncommon : and do you think yourself in no danger of 
suffering by applause and a full purse ] Remember Solomon's ad- 
vice, which he spoke from experience, " stronger is he that con- 
quers," &c. Keep fast hold of your rural simplicity and purity, 
like Telemachus, by Mentor's aid, in Calypso's isle, or even in that 
of Cyprus. I hope you have also Minerva with you. I need not 
tell you how much a modest diffidence and invincible temperance 
adorn the most shining talents, and elevate the mind, and exalt 
and refine the imagination even of a poet. 

I hope you will not imagine I speak from suspicion or evil report. 
I assure you I speak from love and good report, and good opinion, 
and a strong desire to see you shine as much in the sunshine as you 
have done in the shade, and in the practice as you do in the theory 
of virtue. This is my prayer, in return for your elegant compo- 
sition in verse. All here join in compliments, and good wishes for 
your further prosperity. 



No. XIII. 
TO MR. CHALMERS. 
My Dear Friend, Edinburgh, 27th Dec. 1786. 

I fQNFEss I have sinned the sin for which there is hardly any for- 



144 burns' works. 

giveness — ingratitude to friendship — in not writing you sooner; 
but of all men living, I had intended to send you an entertaining 
letter; and by all the plodding, stupid powers, that in nodding 
conceited majesty preside over the dull routine of business — a 
heavily solemn oath this ! — I am, and have been ever since I came 
to Edinburgh, as unfit to write a letter of humour as to write a 
commentary on the Reflations. 

To make you some amends for what, before you reach, this para- 
graph, you will have suffered, I inclose you two poems I have 
carded and spun since I past Glenbuck. One blank to the address 
to Edinburgh, " Fair B ," is the heavenly Miss Burnett, daugh- 
ter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be 
more than once. There has not been any thing nearly like her, 
in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness, the great 
Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve on the first day of her ex- 
istence. 

I have sent you a parcel of suscription- bills, and have written to 
Mr. Ballantine and Mr. Aiken, to call on you for some of them, if 
they want them. My direction is — Care of Andrew Bruce, merchant, 
Bridge Street. 



No. XIV. 

TO THE EAEL OF EGLINTON. 

My LoaD, Edinburgh, January } 1787. 

As I have but slender pretensions to philosophy, I cannot rise to 
the exalted idea of a citizen of the world ; but have all those na- 
tional prejudices which, I believe, glow peculiarly strong in the 
breast of a Scotchman. There is scarcely any thing to which I am 
so feelingly alive, as the honour and welfare of my country; and, 
as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than singing her sons and 
daughters. Fate had cast my station in the veriest shades of life ; 
but never did a heart pant more ardently than mine, to be distin- 
guished : though, till very lately, I looked in vain on every side for 
a ray of light. It is easy, then, to guess how much I was gratified 
with the countenance and approbation of one of my country's most 
illustrious sons, when Mr. Wauchope called on me yesterday, on 
the part of your lordship. Your munificence, my lord, certainly 
deserves my very grateful acknowledgements ; but your patronage 
is a bounty peculiarly suited to my feelings. I am not master 
enough of the etiquette of life to know whether there be not some 
impropriety in troubling your lordship with my thanks ; but my 
heart whispered me to do it. From the emotions of my inmost 
soul I do it. Selfish ingratitude, I hope, I am incapable of ; and 
mercenary servility, I trust, I shall ever have so much honest pride 
as to detest. 



No. XY. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mai>am, Edinburgh, 15th January, 1787. 

Youas of the 9th current, which 1 am this m.o»en.t honoured with, 



LETTERS. 146 

is a deep reproach to me for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the 
real truth, for I am miserably awkward at a fib ; I wished to have 
written to Dr. Moore before 1 wrote to you ; but though, every day 
since I received yours of December 30th, the idea, the wish to write 
him, has constantly pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for my 
soul set about it. I know his fame and character, and I am one of 
"the sons of little men." To write him a mere matter of fact affair, 
like a merchant's order, would be disgracing the little character I 
have ; and to write the author of The View of Society and Manners 
a letter of sentiment — I declare every artery runs cold at the 
thought. 1 shall try, however, to write him to morrow or next 
day. His kind interposition in my behalf I have already expe- 
rienced, as a gentlemen waited on me the other day, on the part of 
Lord Eglinton, with ten guineas by way of subscription for two 
copies of my next edition. 

The word you object to in the mention I have made of my glorious 
countryman and your immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from 
Thompson ; but it does not strike me as an improper epithet. I 
distrusted my own judgment on your finding fault with it, and ap- 
plied for the opinion of some of the Literati here, who honour me 
with their critical strictures, and they all allow it to be proper. 
The song you ask I cannot recollect, and I have not a copy of 
it. I have not composed any thing on the great Wallace, except 
what you have seen in print, and the enclosed, which I will 
print in this edition.* You will see I have mentioned some 
others of the name. When I composed my Vision, long ago, I 
had attempted a description of Kyle, of which the additional 
stanzas are a part, as it originally stood. My heart glows with a 
wish to be able to do justice to the merits of the Saviour of his 
Country, which, sooner or later, I shall at least attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a 
poet. Alas ! madam, I know myself and the world too well. I do 
not mean any airs of affected modesty ; I am willing to believe that 
my abilities deserved some notice ; but in a most enlightened, in- 
formed age and nation, when poetry is and has been the study of 
men*of the first natural genius aided with all the powers of polite 
learning, polite book?, and polite company — to be dragged forth to 
the full glare of learned and polite observation, with all my imper- 
fections of awkward rusticity and crude unpolished ideas en my 
head —I assure you, madam, I do not dissemble when I tell you I 
tremble for the consequences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure 
situation, without any of those advantages which are reckoned 
necessary for that character, at least at this time of day, has raised 
a partial tide of public notice, which has borne me to a height 
where I am absolutely, feeling certain, my abilities are inadequate 
to support me ; and too surely do I see that time when the same 
tide will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far below the mark of 
truth. 

Your patronizing me, and interesting yourself in my fame 

* Stanzas in the Visiov, beginning third stanza, " By stately tower or palace 
fair," and ending with the fiist dtaa. 



140 BURNS' WORKS. 

and character as a poet, I rejoice in it; it exalts me in my own 
idea ; and whether you can or cannot aid me in my subscription is 
a trifle. Has a paltry subscription bill any charms to the heart of 
a bard, compared with the patronage of the descendant of the im- 
mortal Wallace 1 



No. XYI. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

sir, 1787. 

Mrs. Ddnlop has been so kind as to send me extracts of letters 
she has had from you, where you do the rustic bard the honour of 
noticing him and his works. Those who have felt the anxieties 
and solicitudes of authorship, can only know what pleasure it gives 
to be noticed in such a manner by judges of the first character. 
Your criticisms, sir, I receive with reverence ; only, I am sorry 
they mostly came too late ; a peccant passage or two, that I would 
certainly have altered, were gone to press. 

The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far the greater part of 
those even who are authors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For 
my part, my first ambition was, and still my strongest hope is, to 
please my compeers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever 
changing languages and manners shall allow me to be relished 
and understood. I am very willing to admit that I have some 
poetical abilities ; and as few, if any writers, either moral or 
poetical, are intimately acquainted with the classes of man- 
kind among whom 1 have chiefly mingled, I may have seen men 
and manners in a different phasis from what is common, which may 
assist originality of thought. Still I know very well the novelty of 
my character has by far the greatest share in the learned and polite 
notice I have lately had; and in a language where Pope and 
Churchill have raised the laugh, and Shenstone and Gray 
drawn the tear — where Thomson and Beattie have painted the 
landscape, and Lyttleton and Collins described the heart, I am not 
vain enough to hope for distinguished poetic fame. 

No. XVII. 

FROM DR. MOORE. 

sir, Clifford Street, January 23, 1787. 

I have just received your letter, by which I find I have reason to 
complain of my friend Mr3. Dunlop for transmitting to you ex- 
tracts from my letters to her, by much too freely and too carelessly 
written for your perusal. I must forgive her, however, in consi- 
deration of her good intention, as you will forgive me, 1 hope, for 
the freedom I use with certain expressions, in consideration ot my 
admiration of the poems in general. If I may judge of the au- 
thor's disposition from hi3 works, with all the other good qualities 
of a poet, he has not the irritable temper ascribed to that race of 
men by one of their own number, whom you have the happiness to 
resemble in ease and curious felicity of expression. Indeed the po- 
etical beauties, however original and brilliant, and lavishly scat- 



LETTERS. 147 

tered, are hot all I admire in your works ; the love of your native 
country, that feeling sensibility to all the objects of humanity, and 
the independent spirit which breathes through the whole, give me 
a most favourable impression of the poet, and have made me often 
regret that I did not see the poems, the certain effect of which 
would have been my seeing the author last summer, when I was 
longer in Scotland than I have been for many years. 

I rejoice very sincerely at the encouragement yon receive at 
Edinburgh, and I think you peculiarly fortunate in the patronage 
of Dr. Blair, who, I am informed, interests himself very much for 
you. I beg to be remembered to him : nobody can have a warmer 
regard for that gentleman than I have, which, independent of the 
worth of his character, would be kept alive by the memory of our 
common friend, the late Mr. George B e. 

Before I received your letter, I sent inclosed in a letter to , 

a sonnet by Miss Williams, a young poetical lady, which she wrote 
on reading your Mountain-Daisy : perhaps it may not displease 
you.* 

I have been trying too add to the number of your subscribers, 
but I find many of my acquaintance are already among them. I 
have only to add, that with every sentiment of esteem and most 
cordial good wishes, 

I am, 

Your obedient humble servant, 

J. MOORE. 



No. XVIII. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Reverend Sir, Edinburgh, 15ih February, 17 &7> 

Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying so long to acknowledge the 
honour you have done me, in your kind notice of me, January 23d. 
Not many months ago I knew no other employment than following 
the plough, nor could boast any thing higher than a distant ac- 
quaintance with a country clergyman. Mere greatness never em* 
barrasses me : I have nothing to ask from the great, and I do not 
fear their judgment ; but genius, polished by learning, and at its 
proper point of elevation in the eye of the world, this of late I 
frequently meet with, and tremble at its approach. I scorn the 

*The sonnet is as follows : — 

While soon the garden's flaunting flowers decay, 

And scattered on the earth neglected lie, 
The " Mountain Daisy" cherished by the ray 

A poet drew from heaven, will never die. 
Ah, like that lonely flower the poet rose ? 

'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale ; 
He felt each storm that on the mountain blows, 

Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale. 
By genius in her native vigour nurst, 

On nature with impassion'd look he gazed ; 
Then through the cloud of adverse fortune burst 

Indignant, and in light unborrow'd blazed. 
Scotia ! from rude affliction shield thy bard, 
His heaven-taught numbers Fame herself will guard. 



14£ BURNS' WORKS. 

affectation ot seeming modesty to cover self conceit. That I have 
some merit I do not deny ; but I see, with frequent wringings of 
heart, that the novelty of my character, and the honest national 
prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to a height altogether 
untenable to my abilities. 

For the honour Miss Y\ r . has done me, please, Sir, return her in 
my name, my most grateful thanks. I have more than once thought 
of paying her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the idea in hope- 
less despondency. I had never before heard of her ; but the other 
day I got her poems, which, for several reasons, some belonging to 
the head, and others the offspring of the heart, give me a great deal 
of pleasure. I have little pretensions to critic lore : there are, I 
think, two characteristic features in her poetry — the unfettered 
wild flight of native genius, and the querulous, sombre tenderness 
of time -settled sorrow." 

1 only know what pleases me, often without being able to tell 
why. 



No. XIX. 

FROM DR. MOORE. 

dear sir, Clifford Street, 2&th February, 1787. 

Your letter of the 15th gave me a great deal of pleasure. It is not 
surprising that you improve in correctness and taste, considering 
where you have been for some time past. And I dare swear there 
is no danger of your admitting any polish which might weaken the 
vigour of your native powers. 

I am glad that you disdain the nauseous affectation of decrying 
your own merit as a poet — an affectation which is displayed with 
most ostentation by those who have the greatest share of self-con- 
ceit, and which only adds undeceiving falsehood to disgusting 
vanity. For you to deny the merit of your poems would be arraign* 
ing the fixed opinion of the public. 

As the new edition of my View of Society is not yet ready, I have 
sent you the former edition, which I beg you will accept as a mark 
of my esteem. It is sent by sea, to the care of Mr. Creech ; and, 
along with these four volumes for yourself, I have also sent my Me- 
dical Sketches, in one volume, for my friend Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop; 
this you will be so obliging as to transmit, or if you chance to pass 
soon by Dunlop, to give her. 

I am happy to hear that your subscription is so ample, and shall 
rejoice at every piece of fortune that befalls you : for you are a very 
great favourite in my family ; and this is a higher compliment 
than perhaps you are aware of. It includes almost all the profes- 
sions, and of course is a proof that your writings are adapted to 
various tastes and situations. My youngest son, who is at Winches- 
ter school, writes to me that he is translating some stanzas of your 
Halloween into Latin verse, for the benefit of his comrades. This 
union of taste partly proceeds, no doubt, from the cement of Scot- 
tish partiality, with which they are all somewhat tinctured. Even 



LETTERS. 149 

your translator, who left Scotland too early in life for recollection, 
is not without it. 

I remain, with greatest sincerity, 

Your obedient servant, 

J. MOORE. 



No. XX. 

TO THE EARL OF GLEETCAIRK 

MY LORD, Edinburgh, 1787. 

I wanted to purchase a profile of your lordship, which I was told 
was to be got in town ; but I am truly sorry to see that a blunder- 
ing painter has spoiled a " human face divine." The enclosed 
stanzas I intended to have written below a picture or profile of your 
lordship, could I have been so happy as to procure one with any 
thing of a likeness. 

^ As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted to have something 
like a material object for my gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my 
power to say to a friend, " There is my noble patron, my ge- 
nerous benefactor.'' Allow me, my lord, to publish these verses. 
I conjure your lordship by the honest throe of gratitude, by the 
generous wish of benevolence, by all the throes and feelings which 
compose the magnanimous mind, do not deny me this petition.* I 
owe to your lordship ; and what has not in some instances always 
been the case with me, the weight of the obligation is a pleasing 
load. I trust, I have a heart as independent as your lordship's, 
than which I can say nothing more ; and I would not be beholden 
to favours that would crucify my feelings. Your dignified character 
in life, and manner of supporting that character, are flattering to 
my pride ; and I would be jealous of the purity of my grateful at- 
tachment, where 1 was under the patronage of one of the much fa- 
voured sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, particularly when 
they were names dear to fame, and illustrious in their country ; al- 
low me, then, my lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic merit, 
to tell the world how much I have the honour to be 
Your lordship's highly indebted, 

And ever grateful humble servant. 



No. XXT. 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

MY LORD, 

Tbe honour your lordship has done me, by your notice and advice 
in yours of the 1st instant, I shall ever gratefully remember : 

' Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to boast, 
They best can give it who deserve it most.' 

Your lordship touches the darling chord of my heart when you 

* It does not appear that the earl granted this request, nor have the verses al" 
luded to ever been found among the MSS. 



150 burns' works. 

advise me to fire my muse at Scottish story and Scottish scenes. I 
wish for nothing more than to make a leisurely pilgrimage through 
my native country ; to sit and muse on those once hard-contended 
fields, where Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne through 
broken ranks to victory and fame ; and, catching the inspiration, to 
pour the deathless names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of 
these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, moral-looking phan- 
tom strides across my imagination, and pronounces these emphatic 
word, " I, Wisdom, dwell with prudence." 

This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must return to my humble sta- 
tion, and woo my rustic muse in my wonted way at the plough-tail. 
Still, my lord, while the drops of life warm my heart, gratitude to 
that dear-loved country in which I boast my birth, and gratitude 
to those her distinguished sons, who have honoured me so much 
with their patronage and approbation, shall, while stealing through 
my humble shades, ever distend my bosom, and at times draw forth 
the swelling tear. 



Ext. Property in favour of Mr. Robert Burns, to erect and keep up 
a Headstone in memory of Poet Fergusson, 1787. 

Session-house, tvithin the Kirk of Canongate, the twenty -second 
day of February, one thousand seven hundred and eighty* 
seven years. 

Sederunt of the managers of the Kirk and Kirk-yard Funds of 

Canongate. 

Whioh day, the treasurer to the said funds produced a letter from 
Mr. Robert Burns, of date the sixth current, which was read, and 
appointed to be engrossed in their sederunt-book, and of which 
letter the tenor follows : " To the Honourable Bailies of Canongate, 
Edinburgh. Gentlemen, I am sorry to be told that the remains of 
Robert Fergusson, the so justly celebrated poet, a man whose 
talents, for ages to come, will do honour to our Caledonian name, 
lie in your church-yard, among the ignoble dead, unnoticed and 
unknown. 

" Some memorial to direct the steps of the lovers of Scottish song, 
when they wish to shed a tear over the " narrow house" of the 
bard who is no more, is surely a tribute due to Fergusson's memory ; 
a tribute I wish to have the honour of paying. 

u I petition you, then, Gentlemen, to permit me to lay a simple 
stone over his revered ashes, to remain an unalienable property to 
his deathless fame. I have the honour to be, Gentlemen, your very 
humble servant, (sic subscribitur), " Robert Burns." 

Thereafter the said managers, in consideration of the laudable 
and disinterested motion of Mr. ,Burns, and the propriety of his 
request, did, and thereby do, unanimously grant power and liberty 
to the said Robert Burns to erect a headstone at the grave of the 
said Robert Fergusson, and to keep up and preserve the same to his 
memory in all time coming. Extracted forth of the records of the 
managers, by 

William Sprott, Clcrh 



LETTERS. 151 

No. XXIII. 
TO . 



My dear sir, 
You may think, and too justly, that I am a selfish, an ungrateful 
fellow, having received so many repeated instances of kindness 
from you, and yet never putting pen to paper, to say — thank you ; 
but if you knew what a devil of a life my conscience has led me on 
that account, your good heart would think yourself too much 
avenged. By-the bye, there is nothiDg in the whole frame of man 
which seems to me so unaccountable as that thing called conscience. 
Had the troublesome yelping cur power sufficient to prevent a mis- 
chief, he might be of use : but at the beginning of the business, his 
feeble efforts are to the workings of passion as the infant frosts of 
an autumnal morning to the unclouded fervour of the rising sun; 
and no sooner are the tumultuous doings of the wicked deed over, 
than, amidst the bitter native consequences of folly, in the very 
vortex of our horrors, up starts conscience, and harrows us with 

the feelings of the . 

I have enclosed you, by way of expiation, some verse and prose, 
that, if they merit a place in your truly entertaining miscellany, 
you are welcome to. The prose extract is literally as Mr. Sprott 
sent it me. 

The Inscription on the Stone is as follows : 

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, 

POET. 
Born September 5tb, 1/51.— Died, 16th October, 1774. 

No sculptured marble bere, nor pompous lay, 

' No storied urn nor animated bust;' 
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way, 

To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 

On the other side of the Stone is as follows : 

" By special grant of the Managers to Robert Burns, who erected 
this stone, this burial-place is to remain for ever sacred to the me- 
mory of Robert Fergusson." 



No. XXIV. 
EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM 



8th March, 1787. 

I am truly happy to know you have feund a friend in ; his 

patronage of you does hira great honour. He is truly a good man ; 
by for the best I ever knew, or, perhaps, ever shall know, in this 
world. But I must not speak all I think of him, lest I should be 
thought partial. 

So you have obtained liberty from the magistrates to erect a 
stone over Fergusson's grave 1 I do not doubt it ; such things have 
been, as Shakspeare says, " in the olden-time :" 

'|The poet's fate, is here in emblem shown, 
He asls'd for bread, and he received a stone.' j 



152 BURNS' WORKS. 

It is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb, that this is written. 
But how many brothers of Parnassus, as well as poor Butler and 
poor Fergusson, have asked for bread, and been served with the 
same sauce ! 

The magistrates gave you liberty, did they 1 generous magis- 
trates ! * * * *, celebrated for his public spirit, 
gives a poor poet liberty to raise a tomb to a poor poet's memory ! 
— most generous ! * * * once upon a time gave that 
same poet the mighty sum of eighteen pence for a copy of his 
works. But, then, it must be considered, that the poet was at thi 
time absolutely starving, and besought his aid with all the earnest- 
ness of hunger ; and, over and above, he received a worth 

at least, one-third of the value, in exchange, but which, I believe, 
the poet, afterwards, very ungratefully expunged. 

Next week I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you in Edin- 
burgh ; and as my stay will be for eight or ten days, I wish either 

you or — would take a snug, well-aired bedroom for me, 

where I may have the pleasure of seeing you over a morning cup of 
tea. But by all accounts, it will be a matter of some difficulty to 
see you at all, unless your company is bespoke a week beforehand. 
There is a great rumour here concerning your great intimacy with 

the Duchess of , and other ladies of distinction. I am 

really told that " cards to invite fly by thousands each night ;" and 
if you had one, I suppose there would also be " bribes to your old 
secretary." It seems you are resolved to make hay while the sun 
shines, and avoid the fate of poor Eergusson, 

• ' Qucerenda pecunia primum est, virtus jpost nummos, is a good 
maxim to thrive by : you seemed to despise it while in this coun- 
try ; but probably some philosopher in Edinburgh has taught you 
better sense. 

Pray, are you yet engraving as well as printing? — Are you yet 
seized 

' With iteh of picture in the front, 
With bays of wicked rhyme upon't!' 

But I must give up this trifling, and attend to matters that more 
concern myself: so, as the Aberdeen wit says, Adieu, dryly, we sal 
drink phan we meet. 



\ 

I 



No. XXV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Madam, Edinburgh March 23, 1787. 

I read your letter with watery eyes. A little, very little while 
ago, 1 had, scarce a friend but the stubborn pride of my own bosom; now 
I am distinguished, patronized, befriended by you. Your friendly ad- 
vices, I will not give them the cold name of criticisms, I receive 
with reverence. I have made some small alterations in which I 
before printed. I have the advice of some very judicious friends 
among the literati here, but with them I sometimes find it 
necessary to claim the privilege of thinking for myself. The noble 
Earl of Glencairn, to whom I owe more than to any man, does me 



LETTERS, 153 

the honour of giving me his strictures ; his hints with respect to 
impropriety or indelicacy, I follow implicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my future views and prospects : 
there I can give you no light ; it is all 

"Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound." 

The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far my greatest pride ; 
to continue to deserve it is my most exalted ambition. Scottish 
scenes and Scottish story are the theme I could wish to sing. I 
have no dearer aim than to have it in my power, unplagued with 
the routine of business, for which heaven knows I am unfit enough, 
to make leisurely pilgrimage through Caledonia ; to sit on the 
fields of her battles ; to wander on the banks of her rivers ; and 
to muse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured 
abodes of her heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts : I have dallied long enough 
with life : 'tis time to be in earnest. I have a fond, an aged mo- 
ther to care for ; and some other bosom ties perhaps equally tender. 
Where the individual only suffers by the consequences of his own 
thoughtlessness, indolence, or folly, he may be excusable : nay, 
shining abilities, and some of the nobler virtues, may half sanctify 
a heedless character : but where God and nature have intrusted 
the welfare of others to his care ; where the trust is sacred, and the 
ties are dear, that man must be far gone in selfishness, or strangely 
lost to reflection, whom these connexions will not rouse to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear between two and three hundred pounds 
by my authorship ; with that sum I intend, so far as I may be said 
to have any intention, to return to my old acquaintance, the 
plough, and, if I can meet with a lease by which I can live, to com- 
mence farmer. I do not intend to give up poetry : being bred to 
labour secures me independence ; and the muses are my chief, 
sometimes have been my only, enjoyment. If my practice second 
my resolution, I shall have principally at heart the serious business 
of life : but while following my plough, or building up my shocks, 
I shall cast a leisure glance to that dear, that only feature of my 
character, which gave me the notice of my country and the patron- 
age of a Wallace. 

Thus, honoured madam, I have given you the bard, his situation, 
and his views, native as they are in his own bosom. 



Is T o. XXYJ. 

TO THE SAME. 

M ADA if, Edinburgh , 15 th April, 1787. 

There is an affection of gratitude which I dislike. The periods of 
Johnson and the pauses of Sterne may hide a selfish heart. For my 
part, madam, I trust 1 have too much pride for servility, and too 
little prudence for selfishness. I have thi3 moment broke open 
vour fat-ter, but 
G 5 



154 BURNS* WORKS. 

" Rude am I in speech, 
And therefore little can I grace my cause 
In speaking for myself—" 

so I shall not trouble you with any fine speeches and hunted figures. 
I shall just lay my hand on my heart, and say, I hope I shall ever 
have the truest, the warmest, sense of your goodness. 

I come abroad in print for certain on Wednesday. Your orders I 
shall punctually attend to ; only, by the way, I must tell you that 
I was paid before for Dr. Moore's and Miss W.'s copies, through the 
medium of Commissioner Cochrane in this place ; but that we can 
settle when I have the honour of waiting on you. 

Dr Smith* was just gone to London the morning before I received 
your letter to him. 



No. XXYII. 

TO DK. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, 2%d April, 1787. 
I received the books, and sent the one you mentioned to Mrs. Dun- 
lop. I am ill-skilled in beating the coverts of imagination for 
metaphors of gratitude. I thank you, sir, for the honour you have 
done me ; and to my latest hour will warmly remember it. To be 
highly pleased with your book, is what I have in common with the 
world ; but to regard these volumes as a mark of the author's 
friendly esteem, is a still more supreme gratification. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days or a fortnight ; and 
after a few pilgrimages over some of the classic ground of Caledo- 
nia, Cowden-Knowes, Banks of Yarrow, Tweed, &c. I shall return 
to my rural shades, in all likelihood never more to quit them. I have 
formed many intimacies, and friendships here, but I am afraid they 
are of too tender a construction to bear carriage a hundred and 
fifty miles. To the rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, 
I have no equivalent to offer ; and I am afraid my meteor appear- 
ance will by no means entitle me to a settled correspondence with 
any of you, who are the permanent lights of genius and literature. 

My most respectful compliments to Miss W. If once this tan- 
gent flight of mine were over, and I were returned to my wonted 
leisurely motion in my old circle, I may probably endeavour to re- 
turn her poetic compliment in kind. 



No. XXYIII. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER, 

TO MES. DTOTLOP. 

Edinburgh, ZOth April, 1787. 
■ Your criticisms, madam, I understand very well, and could 

have wished to have pleased you better. You are right in your 
guess that I am not very amenable to counsel. Poets, much my 
superiors, have so flattered those who possessed the adventitious 

* Adam Smith, J 






LETTERS. 155 

qualities of wealth and power, that I am determined to flatter no 
created being either in prose or verse. 

I set as little by , lords, clergy, critics, &c, as all these re- 
spective gentry do by my hardship. I know what I may expect 
from the world by and by — illiberal abuse, and perhaps contemp- 
tuous neglect. 

^ I am happy, madam, that some of my own favourite pieces are 
distinguished by your particular approbation. For my Dream, 
which has unfortunately incurred your loyal displeasure, I hope in 
a few weeks, or less, to have the honour of appearing at Dunlop in 
its defence, in person. 

]S T o. XXIX. 
TO THE REY. DR. HUGH BLAIR. 

Laivn- Market, Edinburgh, 3d May, 1787. 

Reverend and much respected sir, 
I leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but could not go without 
troubling you with half a line, sincerely to thank you for your 
kindness, patronage, and friendship you have shown me. I often 
felt the embarrassment of my singular situation ; drawn forth from 
the veriest shades of life to the glare of remark ; and honoured by 
the notice of those illustrious names of my country, whose works, 
while they are applauded to the end of time, will ever instruct and 
amend the heart. However the meteor-like novelty of my appear- 
ance in the world might attract notice, and honour me with the 
acquaintance of the permanent lights of genius and literature, 
those who are truly benefactors of the immortal nature of man ; 
1 knew very well, that my utmost merit was far unequal to the task 
of preserving that character when once the novelty was over. I 
have made up my mind, that abuse, or almost even neglect, will 
not surprise me in my quarters. 

I have sent you a proof impression of Beugo's work for me, done 
on Indian paper, a3 a trifling but sincere testimony with what 
heart- warm gratitude I am, &c» 



No. XXX. 

FROM DR. BLAIR. 

Argyle- Square, ^th May, 1787. 
Dear sir. 
I was favoured this forenoon with your obliging letter, together 
with an impression of your portrait, for which I return you my best 
thanks. The success you have met with I do not think was beyond 
your merits ; and if I have had any small hand in contributing to 
it, it gives me great pleasure. I know no way in which literary 
persons, who are advanced in years, can do more service to the 
world, than in forwarding the efforts of rising genius, or bringing 
forth unknown merit from obscurity. I was the first person who 
brought out to the notice of the world, the poems of Ossian; first 
by the Fragments of Ancient Poetry which I published, and after- 
wards, by my setting on foot the undertaking for collecting and 



156 BUKNS' WORKS. 

publishing the Worls of Ossian ; and I have always considered this 
as a meritorious action of my life. 

Your situation, as you say, was indeed very singular ; and, in 
being brought out all at once from the shades of deepest privacy, 
to so great a share of public notice and observation, you had to 
stand a severe trial. I am happy that you have stood it so well ; 
and as far as I have known or heard, though in the midst of many 
temptations, without reproach to your character and behaviour. 

You are now, I presume, to retire to a more private walk of life, 
and I trust, will conduct yourself there with industry, prudence 
and honour. You have laid the foundation for just public esteem. 
In the midst of those employments, which your situation will ren- 
der proper, you will not, I hope, neglect to promote that esteem, 
by cultivating your genius, and attending to such productions of it 
as may raise your character still higher. At the same time, be not 
in too great a haste to come forward. Take time and leisure to im- 
prove and mature your talents; for on any second production you give 
the world, your fate, as a poet, will very much depend. There is, 
no doubt, a gloss of novelty which time wears off. As you very pro- 
perly hint yourself, you are not to be surprised if, in your rural re- 
treat, you do not find yourself surrounded with that glare of notice 
and applause which here shone upon you. No man can be a good 
poet without being somewhat of a philosopher. He must lay his 
account, that any one, who exposes himself to public observation, 
will occasionally meet with the attacks of illiberal censure, which it 
is always best to overlook and despise. He will be obliged some- 
times to court retreat, and to disappear from public view. He will 
not affect to shine always, that he may at proper seasons come forth 
with more advantage and energy. He will not think himself neg- 
lected if he be not always praised. I have taken the liberty, you 
see, of an old man, to give advice and make reflections which your 
own good sense will, I dare say, render unnecessary. 

As you mention your being just about to leave town, you are go- 
ing, I should suppose, to Dumfries-shire, to look at some of Mr. 
Miller's farms. 1 heartily wish the offers to be made you there may 
answer ; as I am persuaded you will not easily find a more gener- 
ous and better hearted proprietor to live under than Mr. Miller. 
When you return, if you come this way, I will be happy to see you, 
and to know concerning your future plans of life. You will find me, 
by the 22nd of this month, not in my house in Arsryle Square, but 
at a country-house at Restalrig, about a mile east from Edinburgh, 
near the Musselburgh road. Wishing you all success and prospe- 
rity, I am, with real regard and esteem, 

Dear Sir, Yours sincerely, 

HUGH BLAIR. 



No. XXXI. 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

Dear fir, Gifford Street, May 23, 1787. 

I had the pleasure of your letter by Mr. Creech, and soon after he 
sent me the new edition of your poems. You seem to think it 
incumbent on you to send to each subscriber a number of copies 



LETTERS. 157 

proportionate to his subscription money; but you may depend upon 
it, few subscribers expect more than one copy, whatever they sub- 
scribed. I must inform you, however, that I took twelve copies 
for those subscribers for whose money you were so accurate as to 
send me a receipt ; and Lord Eglinton told me he had sent for six 
copies for himself, as he wished to give five of them in presents. 

Some of the poems you have added in this last edition are beauti- 
ful, particularly the Winter Night, the Address to Edinburgh, Green 
grow the Rashes, and the two songs immediately following; the 
latter of which was exquisite. By the way, I imagine you have a 
peculiar talent for such compositions, which you ought to indulge. 
No kind of poetry demands more delicacy or higher polishing. 
Horace is more admired on account of his Odes than all his other 
writings. But nothing now added is equal to your Vision and 
Cotter's Saturday Night. In these are united fine imagery, natural 
and pathetic description, with sublimity of language and thought. 
It is evident that you already possess a great variety of expression 
and command of the English language ; you ought, therefore, to 
be more sparingly for the future in the provincial dialect:— why 
should you, by using that, limit the number of your admirers to 
those who understand the Scottish, when you can extend it to all 
persons of taste who understand the English language? In my 
opinion, you should plan some larger work than any you have as 
yet attempted. I mean, reflect upon some proper subject, and 
arrange the plan in your mind, without beginning to execute any 
part of it till you have studied most of the best English poets, and 
read a little more of history. The Greek and Koman stories you 
can read in some abridgment, and soon become master of the most 
brilliant facts, which must highly delight a poetical mind. You 
should also, and very soon may, become master of the heathen my- 
thology, to which there are everlasting allusions in all the poets, 
and which in itself is charmingly fanciful. What will require to 
be studied with more attention, is modern history; that is the 
history of France and Great Britain, from the beginning of Henry 
the Seventh's reign. I know very well you have a mind capable of 
attaining knowledge by a shorter process than is commonly used, 
and I am certain you are capable of making a better use of it, 
when attained, than is generally done. 

I beg you will not give yourself the trouble of writing to me 
when it is inconvenient, and make no apology, when you do write, 
for having postponed it ; be assured of this, however, that I shall 

always be happy to hear from you. I think my friend Mr. 

told me that you had some poems in manuscript by you of a satiri- 
cal and humorous nature (in which, by the way, I think you very 
strong.) which your prudent friends prevailed on you to omit, par- 
ticularly one called Somebody '& Confession ; if you will intrust me 
with a sight of any of these, 1 will pawn my word to give no copies, 
and will be obliged to you for a perusal of them. 

I understand you intend to take a farm, and make the useful 
and respectable business of husbandry your chief occupation ; this, 
I hope, will not prevent your making occasional addresses to the 
nine ladies who have shown you such favour, one of whom visited 
you in the auld clay biggin, Virgil, before you ; proved to the 



158 burns' works. 

world that there is nothing in the business of husbandry inimical 
to poetry; and I sincerely hope that you may afford an example of 
a good poet being a successful farmer. I fear it will not be in 
my power to visit Scotland this season ; when I do, I'll endeavour 
to find you out, for I heartily wish to see and converse with you. If 
ever your occasions call you to this place, I make no doubt of your 
paying me a visit, and you may depend on a very cordial welcome 
from this family. 

I am, dear Sir, Your friend and obedient Servant, 

J. MOORE. 

No. XXXII. 
FROM MR. JOHN HUTCHINSON. 
Sir, Jamaica, St. Ann's lith June, 1787. 

I received yours, dated Edinburgh, 2d January, 1787, wherein 
you acquaint me you were engaged with Mr. Douglas of Port 
Antonio, for three years, at thirty pounds sterling a-year ; and am 
happy some unexpected accidents intervened that prevented your 
sailing with the vessel, as I have great reason to think Mr. Douglas's 
employ would by no means have answered your expectations. I 
received a copy of your publications, for which I return you thanks, 
and it is my own opinion, as well as that of such of my friends as 
have seen them, they are most excellent in their kind ; although 
some could have wished they had been in the English style, as they 
allege the Scottish dialect is now becoming obsolete, and thereby 
the elegance and beauties of your poems are in a great measure lost 
to far the greater part of the community. Nevertheless there is no 
doubt you had sufficient reasons for your conduct — perhaps the 
wishes of some of the Scottish nobility and gentry, your patrons, 
who will always relish their own old country style ; and your own 
inclinations for the same. It is evident from several passages in 
your works, you are as capable of writing in the English as in the 
Scottish dialect, and I am in great hopes your genius for poetry, 
from the specimen you have already given, will turn out both for 
profit and honour to yourself and country. I can by no means ad- 
vise you now to think of coming to the West Indies, as I assure 
you, there is no encouragement for a man of learning and genius 
here ; and am very confident you can do far better in Great Bri- 
tain, than in Jamaica. I am glad to hear my friends are well, and 
shall always be happy to hear from you at all convenient opportu- 
nities, wishing you succes in all your undertakings. I will esteem it 
a particular favour if you will send me a copy of the other edition 
you are now printing. 

I am, with respect, Dear Sir, yours, &c. 

JOHN HUTCHINSON, 



No. XXXIII. 
TO MR, WALKER, BLAIR OF ATHOLE. 

MT dear sir, Inverness, 5t7i September, 1787. 

I have just time to write the foregoing,* and to tell you that it 

* \ The humble Petition of Bruar-Water to the Duke of Athole.* 



LETTERS. 159 

was (at least most part of it,) the effusion of an half hour I spent at 
Bruar. I do not mean it was extempore, for I have endeavoured to 

brush it up as well as Mr. N 's chat, and the jogging of the 

chaise, would allow. It eases my heart a good deal, as rhyme is 
the coin with which a poet pays his debts of honour or gratitude. 
What I owe to the noble family of Athole, of the first kind, I shall 
ever proudly boast ; what I owe of the last, so help me God in my 
hour of need, I shall never forget. 

The little " angel band !"— I declare I prayed for them very 
sincerely to-day at the Fall of Fyars. I shall never forget the fine 
family-piece I saw at Blair; the amiable, the truly noble Duchess, 
with her smiling little seraph in her lap, at the head of the table ; 
the lovely " olive plants," as the Hebrew bard finely says, round 

the happy mother ; the beautiful Mrs. G ; the lovely, sweet 

Miss C. &c. T wish I had the powers of Guido to do them justice ; 
My Lord Duke's kind hospitality, markedly kind, indeed — Mr. G. 
of F — 's charms of conversation — Sir W. M — 's friendship— in short, 
the recollection of all that polite, agreeable company, raises an 
honest glow in my bosom. 



No. XXXIY. 
TO ME. GILBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh 17 th September, 1787. 
My dear brother, 

I arrived here safe yesterday evening, after a tour of twenty-two 
days, and travelling near six-hundred miles, windings included. My 
farthest stretch was about ten miles beyond Inverness. I went 
through the heart of the Highlands, by Crieff, Taymouth, the 
famous seat of Lord Breadalbane, down the Tay, among cascades 
and druidical circles of stones to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of 
Athole ; thence cross Tay, and up one of his tributary streams to 
Blair of Athole, another of the Duke's seats, where I had the 
honour of spending two days with his Grace and family ; thence 
many miles through a wild country, among cliffs grey with eternal 
snows, and gloomy savage glens, till I crossed Spey and went down 
the stream through Strathspey, so famous in Scottish music, 
Badenoch, &c. till I reached Grant Castle, where I spent half a day 
with Sir James Grant and family ; and then crossed the country 
for Fort George, but called by the way at Cawdor, the ancient seat 
of Macbeth ; there I saw the identical bed in which tradition says, 
King Duncan was murdered : lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. 
I returned by the coast, through Nairn, Forres, and so on, to 
Aberdeen; thence to Stonehive, where Jame3 Burnes, from Mon- 
trose, met me by appointment. I spent two days among our re- 
lations, and found our aunts, Jean and Isabel, still alive, and hale 
old women. John Caird, though born the same year with our 
father, walks as vigorously as I can : they have had several letters 
from his son in New York. William Brand is likewise a stout old 
fellow ; but further particulars I delay till I see you, which will be 
in two or three weeks. The rest of my stages are not worth re- 
hearsing; warm as I was from Qssian's country, where I had seen 



160 



burns' works. 



his very grave, what cared I for fishing towns or fertile carses] I 
slept at "the famous Brodie of Brodie's one night, and dined at 
Gordon Castle next day -with the Duke, Duchess, and family. I am 
thinking to cause my old mare to meet me, by means of John 
Konald, at Glasgow; but you shall hear farther from me before I 
leave Edinburgh. My duty, and many compliments from the north, 
to my mother, and my brotherly compliments to the rest. I have 
been trying for a birth for William, but am not likely to be success- 
ful. — Farewell. 



No. XXXY. 
FROM MR. R . 

Sir, Ocldertyre 22d October, 1787. 

'Twas only yesterday I got Colonel Edmonstoune's answer, that nei- 
ther the words of Down ike lurn Davie, nor Dainty Davie (I forgot 
which you mentioned), were written by Colonel G. Crawford. Next 
time I meet him, I will inquire about his cousin's poetical talents. 

Enclosed are the inscriptions you requested, and a letter to Mr. 
Young, whose company and musical talents will, I am persuaded, 
be a feast to you.* Kobody can give you better hints, as to your 

* These inscription", so much admired by Burns, are below : — 



written m 1T6S. 

FOR THE SALICTUMf AT 
OCHTERTYRE. 

Salcbritatis voluptatisque causa. 

Hoc Salicturn, 

Paludem olirn infidam, 

Mihi meisque desicco et exorno. 

Hie, procul negotiis strepituque 

Innocuis deliciis 

Silvulas inter nascentes rep'andi, 

Apiumque labores auspiciendi, 

Fruor, 

Hie. si faxit Dens opt. max. 

Prope banc fontem peilucidum. 

Cum quandam juventutis amieo super- 

stite, 

Saepe conquiescam senex, 

Contentus modicis, meoque laetus ! 

Sin aliter — 

JEvique paululum supersit, 

Vos silvulae, et amici, 

Caeteraque amoeua, 

Valete, diuque lcetamini ! 



:Now fondly marking the progress of my 

trees, 
Now studying the bee, its arts and man- 
ners. 
Here, if is pleases Almighty God, 
May I often rest in the evening of life, 

Near that transparent fountain, 

With some surviving friend of my youth 

Contented with a competency, 

And happy with my lot. 
If vain these humble wishes, 
And life draws near a close, 

Ye trees and friends, 

And whatever else is dear, 

Farewell, and long may ye flourish. 



ENGLISHED. 

To improve both air and soil. 

1 drain and decorate his plantation of 

willows, 
"Which was lately an unprofitable morass, 
Here, far lrom noise and strife, 
I love to wander, 



ABOVE THE DOOR OF THE 
HOUSE. 

WE ITT EN IN 1775. 

Mini meisque utinam contingat, 

Prope Taichi marginem, 

Aviro in agello, 

Bene vivere fausteque mori ! 

ENGLISHED. 

On the banks of the Teith, 

In the small but sweet inheritance 

Of my fathers. 

May I and mine live in peace, 

And die in joyful hope ! 



These inscriptions, and the translations, are in the hand writing of Mr. R . 

This gentleman . if still alive, will, it is hoped .excuse the liberty taken by the un- 
known editor, in enriching the correspondence of Burns with his excellent letter, 
th inscriptions so classical and so interesting. 

t SsHcturn— Grove of Willows, Willow^round- 



LETTERS. 161 

present plan, than he. Keceive also Omeron Cameron, which seemed 
to make such a deep impression on your imagination, that I am not 
without hopes it will beget something to delight the public in due 
time : and, no doubt, the circumstances of this little tale might be 
varied or extended, so as to make part of a pastoral comedy. Age 
or wounds might have kept Omeron at home, whilst his countrymen 
were in the field. His station may be somewhat varied, without 
losing his simplicity and kindness * * *. A group of 
characters, male and female, connected with the plot, might be 
formed from his family, or some neighbouring one of rank. It is 
not indispensable that the guest should be a man of high station ; 
nor is the political quarrel in which he is engaged, of much im- 
portance, unless to call forth the exercise of generosity and faith- 
fulness, grafted on patriarchal hospitality. To introduce state af- 
fairs, would raise the style above comedy ; though a small spice of 
them would season the converse of swains. Upon this head I can- 
not say more than to recommend the study of the character of 
Eumaeus in the Odyssey, which, in Mr. Pope's translation, is an ex- 
quisite and invaluable drawing from nature, that would suit some of 
our country elders of the present day. 

There must be love in the plot, and a happy discovery ; and peace 
and pardon may be the reward of hospitality, and honest attachment 
to misguided principles. When you have once thought of a plot, 
and brought the story into form, Dr. Blacklock, or Mr. H, Mac- 
kenzie, may be useful in dividing it into acts and scenes ; for in 
these matters one must pay some attention to certain rules of the 
drama. These you could afterwards fill up at your leisure. But, 
whilst I presume to give a few well-meant hints, let me advise you 
to study the spirit of my namesake's dialogue,* which is natural 
without being low, and, under the trammels of verse, is such as 
country people in their situations speak every day. You have only 
to bring down your own strain a very little. A great plan, such as 
this, would concenter all your ideas, which facilitates the execution, 
and makes it a part of one's pleasure. 

I approve of your plan of retiring from din and dissipation to a 
farm of very moderate size, sufficient to find exercise for mind and 
body, but not so great as to absorb better things. And if some in- 
tellectual pursuit be well chosen and steadily pursued, it will be 
more lucrative than most farms, in this age of rapid improvement. 

Upon this subject, as your well-wisher and admirer, permit me 
to go a step farther. Let those bright talents which the Almighty 
has bestowed on you, be henceforth employed to the noble purpose 
of supporting the cause of truth and virtue. An imagination so 
varied and forcible as yours, may do this in many different modes ; 
nor is it necessary to be always serious, which you have been to good 
purpose ; good morals may be recommended in a comedy, or even in 
a song. Great allowances are due to the heat and inexperience of 
youth ;— and few poets can boast, like Thomson, of never having 
writte naline, which, dying, they would wish to blot. In particular, 
I wish you to keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, which makes 
a man a hundred enemies for one friend, and is doubly dangerous 
when one is supposed to extend the slips and weaknesses of indivi- 
* Allan Ramsay, in the Gentle Shepherd. 



162 BUBNS' WORKS. 

duals to their sect or party. About modes of faith, serious and ex- 
cellent men have always differed; and there are certain curious 
questions, which may afford scope to men of metaphysical heads, 
but seldom mend the heart or temper. Whilst these points are be- 
yond human ken, it is sufficient that all our sects concur in their 
views of morals. You will forgive me for these hints. 

Well ! what think you of good Lady C. 1 It is a pity she is so deaf, 
and speaks so indistinctly. Her house is a specimen of the mansions 
of our gentry of the last age, when hospitality and elevation of mind 
were conspicuous amidst plain fare and plain furniture. I shall be 
glad to hear from you at times, if it were no more than to show that 
you take the effusions of an obscure man like me in good part. I 
beg my best respects to Dr. and Mrs, Blacklock, 
And am, Sir, 

Your most obedient humble servant, 

J. RAMSAY. 



No. XXXYI. 
FROM MR. W— 



Athole House lWi September, 1787. 
Your letter of the 5th reached me only on the 11th; what awkward 
route it had taken I know not ; but it deprived me of the pleasure 
of writing to you in the manner you proposed, as you must have left 
Dundee before a letter could possibly have got there. I hope your 
disappointment on being forced to leave us was as great as appeared 
from your expressions. This is the best consolation for the great- 
ness of ours. I still think with vexation on that ill-timed indisposi- 
tion which lost me a day's enjoyment of a man (I speak without 
flattery) possessed of those very dispositions and talents 1 most ad- 
mire; one 

You know how anxious the Duke was to have 
another day of you, and to let Mr. Dundas have the pleasure of your 
conversation as the best dainty with which he could entertain an 
honoured guest. You know likewise the eagerness the ladies showed 
to detain you ; but perhaps you do not know the scheme which they 
devised, with their usual fertility in resources. One of the servants 
was sent to your driver to bribe him to loosen or pull off a shoe from 
one of his horses, but the ambush failed. Prohmirum! The driver 
was incorruptible. Your verses have given us much delight, and I 
think will produce their proper effect.* They produced a powerful 
one immediately ; for the morning after I read them, we all set out 
in procession to the Bruar, where none of the ladies had been these 
seven or eight years, and again enjoyed them there. The passages 
we most admired are the description of the dying Irouts. Of the 
high fall " twisting strength," is a happy picture of the upper part. 
The characters of the birds, " mild and mellow," is the thrush it- 
self. The benevolent anxiety for their happiness and safety I highly 
approve. The two stanzas beginning " Here haply too" — darHy 

da&hiiig, is most descriptively Ossianic. 

***** 

* " The humble Petition of Bruar-Water to the Duke of Athole." 



LETTERS. 163 

Here I cannot deny myself the pleasure of mentioning an inci- 
dent which happened yesterday at the Bruar. As we passed the 
door of a most miserable hovel, an old woman curtsied to us with 
looks of such poverty, and such contentment, that each of involun- 
tarily gave her some money. She was astonished, and in the con- 
fusion of her gratitude, invited us in. Miss C. and I, that we 
might not hurt her delicacy, entered — but, good God, what wretch- 
edness ! It was a cow-house— her own cottage had been burnt last 
winter. The poor old creature stood perfectly silent— looked at 
Miss C. then to the money, and burst into tears — Miss C. joined her, 
and, with a vehemence of sensibility, took out her purse, and emp- 
tied it into the old woman's lap. What a charming scene ! — A 
sweet accomplished girl of seventeen in so angelic a situation ! 
Take your pencil and paint her in your most glowing tints. — Hold 
her up amidst the darkness of this scene of human woe, to the icy 
dames that flaunt through the gaieties of life, without ever feeling 
one generous, one great emotion. 

Two day 8 after you left us, I went to Taymouth. It is a charm- 
ing place, but still I think art has been too busy. Let me be your 
Cicerone for two days at Dunkeld, and you will acknowledge that 
in the beauties of naked nature we are not surpassed. The loch, 
the Gothic arcade, and the fall of the hermitage, gave me most de- 
light. But I think the last has not been taken proper advantage of. 
The hermitage is too much in common-place style. Every body 
expects the couch, the book-press, and the hairy gown. The Duke's 
idea I think better. A rich and elegant apartment is an excellent 
contrast to a scene of Alpine horrors. 

I must now beg your permission (unless you have some other de- 
sign) to have your verses printed. They appear to me extremely 
correct, and some particular stanzas would give universal pleasure. 
Let me know, however, if you incline to give them any farther 
touches. 

Were they in some of the public papers, we could more easily 
disseminate them among our friends, which many of us are anxious 
to do. 

When you pay your promised visit to the Braes of Ochtertyre, 
Mr. and Mrs. Graham of Balgowan beg to have the pleasure of con- 
ducting you to the bower of Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, which is 
now in their possession. The Duchess would give any consideration 
for another sight of your letter to Dr. Moore ; we must fall upon 
some method of procuring it for her. I shall inclose this to our 
mutual friend Dr. B , who may forward it. I shall be ex- 
tremely happy to hear from you at your first leisure. Inclose your 
letter in a cover addressed to the Duke of Athole, Dulkeld. 

God bless you, 

J W — . 



No. XXXVII. 
FROM MR. A M- 



sir, 6th October, 1787. 

Having just arrived from abroad, I had your poems put into my 



164 

hands : tlie pleasure I received from reading tliem, has induced me 
to solicit your liberty to publish them amongst a number of our 
countrymen in America, (to which place I shall shortly return), 
and where they will be a treat of such excellence, that it would be 
an injury to your merit and their feeling to prevent their appear- 
ing in public. 

Receive the following hastily- written lines from a well-wisher. 

Fair fa' your pen, my dainty Rob, 

Your leisom way o' writing, 
Whiles, glowering o'er your warks I sob, 

Whiles laugh, whiles downright greeting : 
Your sonsie tykes may charm a chiel, 

Their words are wondrous bonny, 
But guid Scotch drink the truth does say, 

It is as guid as ony 

Wi' you this day. 

Poor Mailie, troth, I'll nae but think, 

Ye did the poor thing wrang, 
To leave her tether d on the brink 

Of stank sae wide and lang ; 
Her dying words upbraid ye sair, 

Cry fye on your neglect ; 
Guid faith ! gin ye had got play fair, 

This deed had stretch'd your neck 

That mournfu' day. 

But, wae's me, how dare I fin' taut, 

Wi' sic a winsome bardie, 
Wha great an' sma's begun to daut, 

And tak' him by the gardie; 
It sets na ony lawland chiel 

Like you to verse or rhyme, 
For few like you can fley the de'il, 

And skelp auld wither d Time 
On ony day. 
It's fair to praise ilk canty calian, 

Be he of purest fame, 
If he but tries to raise as Allan, 

Auld Scotia's bonny name; 
To you, therefore, in humble rhyme, 

Better I canna gi'e, 
And tho' it's but a swatch of thine, 

Accept these lines frae me, 

Upo' this day. 

Frae Jock o' Groats to bonny Tweed, 

Frae that e'en to the line, 
In ilka place where Scotsmen bleed, 

There shall your hardship shine ; 
Ilk honest chiel wha reads your buick, 

Will there aye meet a brither, 
He lang may seek and lang will look, 

Ere he tin' sic anither 

On ony day. 



j 



LETTERS. 

Feart that my cruicket verse should spairge 

Some wark of wordie mak', 
I'se na mair o' this head enlarge, 

But now my farewell tak' ; 
Lang may you live, lang may you write, 

And sing like English Weischell, 
This prayer I do myself indite, 

From yours still, A M . 

This very day. 



No. XXXYIIf. 
FROM MR. J. RAMSAY, 

TO THE 

REVEREND W. YOUNG, AT ERSKINE. 

dear sir, Ochtertyre, 2d October, 1787- 

Allow me to introduce Mr. Burns, whose poems, I dare say, have 
given you so much pleasure. Upon a personal acquaintance, I 
doubt not, you will relish the man as much as hi3 works, in which 
there is a rich vein of intellectual ore. He has heard some of our 
Highland luinigs or songs played, which delighted him so much 
that he has made words to one or two of them, which will render 
these more popular. As he has thought of being in your quarter, 
1 am persuaded you will not think it labour lost to indulge the 
poet of nature with a sample of those sweet artless melodies, which 
only want to be married (in Milton's phrase) to congenial words. 
I wish we could conjure up the ghost of Joseph M'D. to infuse into 
our bard a portion of his enthusiasm for those neglected airs, 
which do not suit the fastidious musicians of the present hour. 
But if it be true that Corelli (whom I looked on as the Homer of 
music) is out of date, it is no proof of their taste; — this, however, 
is going out of my province. You can show Mr. Burns the man- 
ner of singing these same luinigs; and, if he can humour it in 
words, I do not despair of seeing one of them sung upon the stage, 
in the original style, round a napkin. 

I am very sorry we are likely to meet so seldom in this neigh- 
bourhood. It is one of the greatest drawbacks that attends obscu- 
rity, that one has so few opportunities of cultivating acquaintances 
at a distance. I hope, however, some time or other, to have the 
pleasure of beating up your quarters at Erskine, and of hauling 
you away to Paisley, &c. ; meanwhile I beg to be remembered to 
Messrs. Boog and Mylne. 

If Mr. B. goes by , give him a billet on our friend Mr. 

Stuart, who, I presume, does not dread the frown of his diocesan, 

I am, Dear Sir, 
Your most obedient humble servant, 

J. RAMSAY. 



166 



burns' works. 



No. XXXIX 
FROM MR. RAMSAY, TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

dear SIR, Ochtertyre, 27th October, 1787. 

I received yours by Mr. Burns, and give you many thanks for giv- 
ing me an opportunity of conversing with a man of his calibre. 
He will, I doubt not, let you know what passed between us on the 
subject of my hints, to which 1 have made additions, in a letter 

sent him t'other day to your care. 

***** 

You may tell Mr. Burns, when you see him, that Colonel Edmon- 
stoune told me t'other day, that his cousin, Colonel George Craw- 
ford, was no poet, but a great singer of songs ; but that his eldest 
brother Robert (by a former marriage) had a great turn that way, 
having written the words of The bush aboon Traquair, and Tweed- 
side. That the Mary to whom it was addressed was Mary Stewart 
of Castlemilk family, afterwards wife of Mr. John Relches. The 
Colonel never saw Robert Crawford, though he was at his burial 
fifty-five years ago. He was a pretty young man, and had lived 
long in France. Lady Ankerville i3 his niece, and may know more 
of his poetical vein. An epitaph-monger like me might moralize 
upon the vanity of life, and the vanity of those sweet effusions. — 
But I have hardly room to offer my best compliments to Mrs. 
Blacklock; and I am, 

Dear Doctor, 
Your most obedient humble servant, 

J. RAMSAY. 



No. XL. 
FROM MR. JOHN MURDOCH. 



My dear sir, 



London, 28th October, 1787 



As my friend, Mr. Brown, is going from this place to your neigh- 
bourhood, I embrace the opportunity of telling you that I am yet 
alive, tolerably well, and always in expectation of being better. By 
the much- valued letters before me, I see that it was my duty to have 
given you this intelligence about three years and nine months ago ; 
and have nothing to allege as an excuse but that we poor, busy, 
bustling bodies in London, are so much taken up with the various 
pursuits in which we are here engaged, that we seldom think of any 
person, creature, place, or thing, that is absent. But this is not al- 
together the case with me ; for 1 often think of you, and Hornie, 
and Russel, and an unfathomed depth, and lowan brunstane, all in 
the same minute, although you and they are (as I suppose) at a con- 
siderable distance. I flatter myself, however, with the pleasing 
thought, that you and I shall meet some time or other either in 
Scotland or England. If ever you come hither, you will have the 
satisfaction of seeing your poems relished by the Caledonians in 
London, full as much a3 they can be by those of Edinburgh. We 
frequently repeat some of your verses in our Caledonian society ; 
and you may believe, that I am not a little vain that I have had 
some share in cultivating such a genius. I was not absolutely cer- 



LETTER^ 167 

tain that you were the author, till a few days ago, when I made a 

visit to Mrs. Hill, Dr. M'Comb's eldest daughter, who lives in town, 

and who told me that she was informed of it by a letter from her 

sister in Edinburgh, with whom you had been in company when in 

that capital. 

Pray let me know if you have any intention of visiting this huge, 

overgrown metropolis 1 It would afford matter for a large poem. 

Here you would have an opportunity of indulging your vein in the 

study of mankind, perhaps to a greater degree than in any city 

upon the face of the globe ; for the inhabitants of London, as you 

know, are a collection of all nations, kindreds, and tongues, who 

make it, as it were, the centre of their commerce. 

* * * # 

Present my respectful compliments to Mrs. Burns, to my dear 
friend Gilbert, and all the rest of her amiable children. May the 
Father of the universe bless you all with those principles and dis- 
positions thafc the best of parents took such uncommon pains to in- 
stil into your minds from your earliest infancy ! May you live as 
he did ! if you do, you can never be unhappy. I feel myself grown 
serious all at once, and affected in a manner I cannot describe. I 
shall only add, that it is one of the greatest pleasures I promise my- 
self before I die, that of seeing the family of a man whose memory 
I revere more than that of any person that ever I was acquainted 
with. 

I am, my dear Friend, 

Yours sincerely, 

JOHN MURDOCH. 



No. XLT. 
FROM MR - 



Sir, Gordon Castle, olst October, 1787. 

If you were not sensible of your fault as well as of your loss in leav- 
ing this place so suddenly, I should condemn you to starve upon 
could hail for ae towmont at least; and as for Dick Latine,* your 
travelling companion, without banning him w€ a' the curses con- 
tained in your letter, (which he'll no value a bazebee,) I should give 
him nought but Strabogie castocls to chew for sax ouJcs, or aye until 

he was as sensible of his error as you seem to be of yours. 
*■*■*■* 

Your song I showed without producing the author ; and it was 
judged by the Duchess to be the production of Dr. Beattie. I sent 
a copy of it, by her Grace's desire, to a Mrs. MTherson in Badenoch, 
who sings Morag and all other Gaelic songs in great perfection. I 
have recorded it likewise, by Lady Charlotte's desire, in a book be- 
longing to her ladyship, where- it is in company with a great many 
other poem3 and verses, some of the writers of which are no less 
eminent for their political than for their poetical abilities. When 
the Duchess was informed that you were the author she wished you 
had written the verses in Scotch. 

Any letter directed to me here will come to hand safely, and, if 

* Mr. Nicol. 



168 burn's works. 

sent under the Duke's cover, it will likewise come free : that is, as 
long as the Duke is in this country. 

I am, Sir, yours sincerely. 



No. XLII. 
FROM THE KEY. JOHN SKINNER. 

Sir, Linshart, \ith November, 1787. 

Your kind return without date, but of post-mark October 25th, 
came to my hand only this day ; and, to testify my punctuality to 
my poetic engagement, I sit down immediately to answer it in kind. 
Your acknowledgment of my poor but just ecomiums on your sur- 
prising genius, and your opinion of my rhyming excursions, are 
both, I think, by far too high. The difference between our two 
tracts of education and the ways of life is entirely in your favour, 
and gives you the preference every manner of way. I know a classi- 
cal education will not create a versifying taste, but it mightily im- 
proves and assists it ; and though, where both these meet, there 
may sometimes be ground for approbation, yet where taste appears 
single, as it were, and neither cramped nor supported by acquisition, 
I will always sustain the justice of its prior claim to applause. A 
small portion of taste, this way, I have had almost from childhood, 
especially in the old Scottish dialect ; and it is as old a thing as I 
remember, my fondness for Christ's hirh o the Green, which I had 
by heart ere I was twelve years of age, and which, some years ago, 
I attempted to turn into Latin verse. While I was young, I dab- 
bled a good deal in these things ; but on getting the black gown, I 
gave it pretty much over, till my daughters grew up, who, being 
all good singers, plagued me for words to some of their favourite 
tunes, and so extorted these effusions, which have made a public 
appearance beyond my expectation, and contrary to my intentions, 
at the same time that I hope there is nothing to be found in them 
uncharacteristic, or unbecoming the cloth, which I would always 
wish to see respected. 

As to the assistance you propose from me in the undertaking you 
are engaged in,* I am sorry I cannot give it so far as 1 could wish, 
and you, perhaps, expect. My daughters, who were my only intelli- 
gencers, are all forisfamiliate, and the old woman their mother has 
lost that taste. There are two from my own pen, which I might 
give you, if worth the while. One to the old Scotch tune of Dum- 
barton's Drums. 

The other perhaps you have met with, as your noble friend the 
Duchess has, I am told, heard of it. It was squeezed out of me by 
a brother parson in her neighbourhood, to accommodate a new 
Highland reel for the Marquis's birth-day, to the stanza of 

1 Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly.' &c. 

If this last answer your purpose, you may have it from a brother 
of mine, Mr. James Skinner, writer in Edinburgh, who, I believe, 
can give the music too. 

There is another humorous thing, I have heard said to be done 
by the Catholic priest Geddes, and which hit my taste much : 
* ' A plan of publishing a. complete collection of Scottish Songs,' &c. 



LETTERS. 172 

' There was a wee wifeikie was coming frae the fair, 
Had gotten a little drapikie, which bred her meikle care ; 
It took upo' the wifie's heart, and she began to spew, 
And quo' the wee wifeikie, I wish I binna fou, 

I wish, &c. &c.' 

I have heard of another new composition, by a young ploughman 
of my acquaintance, that I am vastly pleased with, to the tune of 
The humours of Glen, which I fear won't do, as the music, I am told, 
is of Irish original. 1 have mentioned these, such as they are, to 
show my readiness to oblige you, and to contribute my mite, if I 
could, to the patriotic work you have in hand, and which I wish all 
success to. You have only to notify your mind, and what you want 
of the above shall be sent to you. 

Meantime, while you are thus publicly, I may say, employed, do 
not sheath your own proper and piercing weapon. From what I 
have seen of yours already, I am inclined to hope for much good. 
One lesson of virtue and morality, delivered in your amusing style, 
and from such as you, will operate more than dozens would do from 
such as me, who shall be told it is our employment, and be never 
more minded : whereas, from a pen like yours, as being one of the 
many, what comes will be admired. Admiration will produce re- 
gard, and regard will leave an impression, especially when example 
goes along. 

Now binna saying I'm ill bred, 
Else, by my troth, I'll not be glad, 
For cadgers, ye have heard it said, 

And sic like fry, 
Maun aye be harland in their trade, 

And sae maun I. 

Wishing you from my poet-pen, all success, and in my other cha- 
racter, all happiness and heavenly direction, 

1 remain, with esteem, 

Your sincere friend, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



No. XLIII. 
FROM MRS*- 



SiR, K 1 Castle, ZWi November, 1787. 

I hope you will do me the justice to believe, that it was no defect 
in gratitude for your punctual performance of your parting promise, 
that has made me so long in acknowledging it, but merely the diffi- 
culty I had in getting the Highland songs you wished to have, ac- 
curately noted; they are at last inclosed; but how shall I convey 
along with them those graces they acquired from the melodious 
voice of one of the fair spirits of the hill of Kildrummie ! These I 
i must leave to your imagination to supply. It has powers sufficient 
i to transport you to her side, to recall her accents, and to make them 
still vibrate in the ears of memory. To her I am indebted for get 
ting the inclosed note3. They are clothed with "thoughts thai 

*>Irs. jtosg of KilraYQck, Nairnshire, 

a 






170 BURNS 5 WORKS. 

breathe, and words that burn." These, however, being in an unknown 
tongue to you, you must again have recourse to that same fertile 
imagination of yours to interpret them, and suppose a lover's de- 
scription of the beauties of an adored mistress — why did I say un- 
known 1 The language of love is an universal one, that seems to 
have escaped the confusion of Babel, and to be understood by all 
nations. 

I rejoice to find that you were pleased with so many things, per- 
sons, and places in your northern tour, because it leads me to hope 
you may be induced to revisit them again. That the old castle of 
K k, and its inhabitants, were amongst these, adds to my sa- 
tisfaction. I am even vain enough to admit your very flattering 
application of the line of Addison's ; at any rate, allow me to believe 
that " friendship will maintain the ground she has occupied" in 
both our hearts, in spite of absence, and that, when we do meet, it 
will be as acquaintance of a score of years standing ; and on this 
footing, consider me as interested in the future course of your fame 
so splendidly commenced. Any communications of the progress of 
your muse will be received with great gratitude, and the fire of 
your genius will have power to warm, even us, frozen sisters of the 
north. 

The friends of K k and K e unite in cordial regards 

to you. When you incline to figure either in your idea, suppose 
some of U3 reading your poems, and some of us singing your songs, 
and my little Hugh looking at your picture, and you'll seldom be 
wrong. We remember Mr. 2sT. with as much good will as we do 
any body, who hurried Mr. Burns from us. 

Farewell, sir, I can only contribute the widow's mite to the esteem 
and admiration excited by your merits and genius, but this I give 
as she did, with all my heart — being sincerely yours, 

E. K. 



No. XL1V. 

TO DALBYMPLE, ESQ, OF ORANGEFIELD. 

Dear sib, Edinburgh, 1787. 

I suppose the devil is so elated with his success with you, that he is 
determined by a coup de main to complete his purposes on you all 
at once, in making you a poet. I broke open the letter you sent 
me ; hummed over the rhymes ; and, as I saw they were extempore, 
said to myself they were well : but when I saw at the bottom a name 
that I shall ever value with grateful respect, " I gapit wide but nae- 
thing spak." I was nearly as much struck as the friends of Job, of 
affliction bearing memory, when they sat down with him seven days 
and seven nights, and spake not a word. 

I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and as soon as my wonder- 
scared imagination regained its consciousness and resumed its func- 
tions, I cast about what this mania of yours might portend. My 
foreboding ideas had the wide stretch of possibility ; and several 
events, great in their magnitude, and important in their conse- 
quences, occurred to my fancy. The downfall of the conclave, or 



letters!. 171 

the crushing of the cork rumps ; a ducal coronet to Lord George 

G and the protestant interest ; or Saint Peter's keys to ... . 

You want to know how I come on. I am just in statu quo, or, 
not to insult a gentleman with my Latin, " in auld use and wont." 
The noble Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, and in- 
terested himself in my concerns, with a goodness like that be- 
nevolent being, whose image he so richly bears. He is a stronger 
proof of the immortality of the soul, that any that philosophy 
ever produced. A mind like his can never die. Let he wor- 
shipful squire, H. L. or the reverend Mass J. M. go into their 
primitive nothing. At best they are but ill-digested lumps of 
chaos, only one of them strongly tinged with bituminous particles 
and sulphureous effluvia. But my noble patron, eternal as the he- 
roic swell of magnanimity, and the generous throb of benevolence, 
shall look on with princely eye at " the war of elements, the wreck 
of matter, and the crash of worlds." 



No. XLY. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, list January, 1788. 

After six weeks' confinement, I am beginning to walk across the 
room. They have been six horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits 
made me unfit to read, write or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an 
officer resigns a commission : for I would not take in any poor ig- 
norant wretch, by selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private ; 
and, God knows, a miserable soldier enough ; now I march to the 
campaign, a starving cadet : a little more conspicuously wretched. 

1 am ashamed of all this ; for though I do want bravery for the 
welfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as 
much fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which will be, as 1 suppose, 
about the middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh, and soon after I 
shall pay my grateful duty at Dunlop-house. 



No. XLYI. 

EXTRACT OP A LETTER 

TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, 12th February, 1788. 

Some things, in your late letters, hurt me : not that you say them, 
but that you mistake me. Religion, my honoured madam, has not 
only been all my life my chief dependence, but my dearest enjoy- 
ment. I have indeed been the luckless victim of wayward follies ; 
but alas \ I have ever been " more fool than knave." A mathema- 
tician without religion, is a probable character ; an irreligious poet, 
is a monster. 



172 BUKNS* WORKS. 

No. XLVII. 
TO A LADY. 

Madam, Mossgiel, 1th March, 1788. 

The last paragraph in yours of the 20th February affected me most, 
so I shall begin my answer where you ended your letter. That I 
am often a sinner with any little wit I have, I do confess : but I 
have taxed my recollection to no purpose, to find out when it was 
employed against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm, a great deal 
worse than I do the devil ; at least as Milton describes him ; and 
though I may be rascally enough to be sometimes guilty of it my- 
self, I cannot endure it in others. You, my honoured friend, who 
cannot appear in any light, but you are sure of being respectable — 
you can afford to pass by an occasion to display your wit, because 
you may depend for fame on your sense ; or if you choose to be si- 
lent, you know you can rely on the gratitude of many and the es- 
teem of all ; but God help us who are wits or witlings, by profession, 
if we stand not for fame there, we sink unsupported 1 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell me of Coila. I may 
say to the fair painter who does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie 
says to Ross the poet, of his Muse Scotia, from which, by the bye, I 
took the idea of Coila : ('Tis a poem of Beatie's in the Scots dialect, 
which perhaps you have never seen.) 

i Ye shak your head, but o' my fegs, 
Ye've set auld Scetia on her legs ; 
Lang had she lien wi' buffe and flegs, 

Bombaz'd and dizzie, 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Waes me, poor hizzie/ 



No. XLYIII. 
TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORK 

MauchU?ie 9 %lst March, 1788. 
Yesterday, my dear sir, as I was riding through a track of melan- 
choly joyless muirs, between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sun- 
day, I turned my thoughts to psalms, and spiritual songs ; and your 
favourite air, Captain O'Kean, coming at length in my head, I 
tried these words to it. You will see that the first part of the tune 
must be repeated.* 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses, but as I have only a 
sketch of the tune, I leave it with you to try if they suit the mea- 
sure of the music. 

I am so harassed with care and anxiety, about this farming pro- 
ject of mine, that my muse has degenerated into the veriest prose- 
wench that ever picked cinders, or followed a tinker. When I am 
fairly got into the routine of business, I shall trouble you with a 
longer epistle ; perhaps with some queries respecting farming ; at 
present, the world sits such a load on my mind, that it has effaced 
almost every trace of the in me. 

My very best compliments, and good wishes to Mrs. Cleghorn. 

* Here the bard gives ttie fiist Stanza of til? CheYaliw's J,ajnent. 



LETTERS. 173 

No. XLTX. 
FROM MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

Sauyhton Mills , 27 th April, 1788. 

MY DEAR BROTHER FARMER, 

I was favoured with your very kind letter of the 31st ult. and con- 
sider myself greatly obliged to you, for your attention in sending 
me the song to my favourite air, Captain O'Kean. The words de- 
lighted me much ; they fit the tune to a hair. I wish you would 
send me a verse or two more ; and if you have no objection, I would 
have it in the Jacobite style. Suppose it should be sung after the 
fatal field of Culloden by the unfortunate Charles ; Tenducci per- 
sonates the lovely Mary Stuart in the song Queen Mary's Lamenta- 
tion. — Why may not 1 sing in the person of her great-great-great 
grandson ?t 

Any skill I have in country business you may truly command. 
Situation, soil, customs of countries may vary from each other, but 
Farmer Attention is a good farmer in every place. I beg to hear 
from you soon. Mrs. Cleghorn joins me in best compliments. 

I am, in the most comprehensive sense of the word, your very 
sincere friend. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 



No. L. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Madam, Mauchline, 2Sth April, 1788. 

Your powers of reprehension mu3t be great indeed, as I assure you 
they made my heart ache with penitential pangs, even though I 
was really not guilty. As I commence farmer at Whitsunday, you 
will easily guess 1 must be pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I 
got the offer of the excise business without solicitation? and as it 
costs me only six months' attendance for instructions, to entitle me 
to a commission ; which commission lies by me, and at any future 
period, on my simple petition, can be resumed ; I thought five and 
thirty pounds a-year was no bad dernier resort for a poor poet, if 

t Our poet took this advice. The whole of this beautiful song, as it was after- 
wards finished, is below : — 

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 

The small birds rejoice in the sreen leaves returning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale ; 
The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning, 
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale : 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, 
While the lingering moments are number'd by care? 
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, 
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dared could it merit their malice— 
A king and a father to place on his throne i 
His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys, 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none. 

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched forlorn, 
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn ; 
Your deeds proved so loyal, in hot bloody trial, 
Alas ! can I make you no sweeter return *! 



174 burns' works. 

fortune in her jade tricks should kick him down from the little 
eminence to which she has lately helped him up. 

For this reason, I am at present attending these instructions, to 
have them completed before Whitsunday. Still, madam, I pre- 
pared with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at the Mount, and 
came to my brother's on Saturday night, to set out on Sunday ; 
but for some nights preceding 1 had slept in an apartment, where 
the force of the winds and rain was only mitigated by being sifted 
through numberless apertures in the window, walls, &c. In conse- 
quence I was on Sunday, Monday, and part of Tuesday unable to 
stir out of bed, with all the miserable effects of a violent cold. 

You see, madam, the truth of the French maxim, Le vrai n'est 
pas toujours le vrai-semllable ; your last was so full of expostulation, 
and was something so like the language of an offended friend, that 
I began to tremble for a correspondence, which I had with grateful 
pleasure set down as one of the greatest enjoyments of my future 
life. 

Your books have delighted me ; Virgil, Dryden, and Tasso, were 
all equal strangers to me ; but of this more at large in my next. 



No. LI. 

FROM THE KEY. JOHN SKINNER. 

Dear Sir, Linshart, 28th April, 1788. 

I received your last, with the curious present you have favoured 
me with, and would have made proper acknowledgments before 
now, but that I have been necessarily engaged in matters of a dif- 
ferent complexion. And now that I have got a little respite, I 
make use of it to thank you for this valuable instance of your good 
will, and to assure you that, with the sincere heart of a true Scots- 
man, I highly esteem both the gift and the giver ; as a small testi- 
mony of which I have herewith sent you for your amusement (and 
in a form which I hope you will excuse for saving postage) the two 
songs I wrote about to you already. Charming Nancy is the real 
production of genius in a ploughman of twenty years of age at the 
time of its appearing, with no more education than what he picked 
up at an old farmer-grandfather's lire-side, though now, by the 
strength of natural parts, he is clerk to a thriving bleach field in 
the neighbourhood. And I doubt not but you will find in it a sim- 
plicity and delicacy, with some turns of humour, that will please 
one of your taste ; at least it pleased me when I first saw it, if that 
can be any recommendation to it. The other is entirely descriptive 
of my own sentiments, and you may make use of one or both as you 
shall see good.* 

* CHARMING NANCY. 

A SONG, BY A BUCHAN PLOUGHMAN. 

Tune — " Humours of Glen." 

Some sing of sweet Mally, some sing of fair Nelly, 
And some call sweet Susie the cause of their pain; 

Some love to be jolly, some love melancholy, 
And some love to sing of the Humours of Glen. 



LETTERS. 175 

You will oblige me by presenting my respects to your host, Mr. 
Cruikshank, who has given such high approbation to my poor La* 
Unity ; you may let him know, that as I have, likewise been a 
dabbler in Latin poetry, I have two things that I would, if he de- 
sires it, submit not to his judgment, but to his amusement : the 

But my only fancy, is my pretty Nancy, 
In venting my passions, I'll strive to be plain, 

I'll ask no more treasure, I'll seek no more pleasure, 
But thee, my dear Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 

Her beauty delights me, her kindness invites me, 

Her pleasant behaviour is free from all stain ; 

Therefore my sweet jewel, O do not prove cruel, 

Consent, my dear Nancy, and come be my ain: 

Her carriage is comely, her language is homely, 

Her dress is quite decent when ta'en in the main : 

She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in stature, 

My charming, dear Nancy, O wert thou my ain ! 

Like Phoebus adorning the fair ruddy morning 

Her bright eyes are sparkling, her brows are serene* 
Her yellow locks shining, in beauty combining, 

My charming sweet Nancy, wilt thou be my ain? 
The whole of her face is, with maidenly graces 

Array 'd like the go wans, that grow in yon glen, 
She's well shap'd and slender, true hearted and tender, 

My charming, sweet Nancy, O wert thou my ain ! 

I'll seek through the nation for some habitation, 

To shelter my dear from the cold, snow, and rain, 
With songs to my deary, I'll keep her aye cheery, 

lly charming, sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 
I'll work at my calling to furnish thy dwelling, 

With ev'ry thing needful thy life to sustain ; 
Thou shalt not sit thee single, but by a clear ingle, 

I'll marrow thee, Nancy, when thou art my ain. 

I'll make true affection the constant direction, 

Of loving my Nancy while life doth remain ; 
Tho' youth will be wasting, true love shall be lasting, 

My charming, sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 
But what if my Nancy should alter her fancy, 

To favour another be forward and fain, 
I will not compel her, but plainly I'll tell her, 

Begone thou false Nancy, thou'se ne'er be my ain. 

THE OLD MAN'S SONG. 

Tune— " Dumbarton's Drum," 

BY THE REV. J. SKINNER. 

O ! why should old age so much wound us ? O 
There is nothing in't all to confound us, O 

For how happy now am I, 

With my old wife sitting by, 
And our bairns and our oes all around us, O ! 

We began in the world wi' naething, O, 

And we've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae' thing, O ; 

We made use of what we had, 

And our thankful hearts were glad, 
When we got the bit meat and the claithing, O. 

We have lived all our lifetime contented, O, 
Since the day we became first acquainted, O ; 

It's true we've been bat poor, 

And we are so to this hour, 
Yet we never pined nor lamented, O. 




176 burns' works. 

one a translation of ChrisVs Kirk o' the Green, printed at Aberdeen 
some years ago ; the other Batrachomyomachia Homeri Latinis ver- 
sibus cum additamentis, given in lately to Chalmers, to print if he 
pleases. Mr. C. will know Seria non semper delectant, nonjoca sem* 
per. Semper delectant seria mixta jocis. 

I have just room to repeat compliments and good wishes from, 
Sir, your humble servant, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



No. LII. 
TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 

Sir, Mauchline> Zd May, 1787. 

I enclose you one or two more of my bagatelles. If the fervent 
wishes of honest gratitude have any influence with that great, un- 
known Being, who frames the chain of causes and events ; prospe- 
rity and happiness will attend your visit to the Continent, and re- 
turn you safe to your native shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me, sir, to claim it as my privilege, to ac- 
quaint you with my progress in my trade of rhymes ; as I am sure 
I could say it with truth, that, next to my little fame, and the 

We ne'er thought of schemes to be wealthy, O, 
By ways that were cunning or stealthy, O, 

But we always had the bliss, 

And what farther could we wiss, 
To be p! eased wi' ourselves, and be healthy, O 

What tho' we canna boast of our guineas, O, 
We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies, O, 

And these, I am certain, are 

More desirable by far, 
Than a pock full of poor yellow sleenies, O. 

We hare seen many a wonder and ferly, O, 
Of changes that almost are yearly, O, 

Among rich folk, up and down, 

Both in country and town, 
Who now live but scrimply, and barely, O. 

Then why should people brag of prosperity, O ? 
A straiten'd life we see is no rarity, O ; 

Indeed we've been in want, 

And our living been but scant, 
Yet we never were reduced to need charity, O. 

In this house we first came together, O, 
Where we've long been a Father and Mither, O, 

And tho' not of stone and lime, 

It will last us a' our time, 
And I hope we shall never need anither, O. 

And when we leave this habitation, O, 
Well depart with a good commendation, O, 

We'll go hand in hand, I wiss, 

To a better house than this, 
To make room for the next generation, O. 

Then why should old age so much wound us, O ? 
There is nothing in it all to confound us, O ; 

For how happy now am I, 

With my auld wife sitting by, 
And our bairns and our oes all around us, O. 



LETTERS. 177 

having it in my power to make life more comfortable to those 
whom nature has made dear to me, I shall ever regard your coun- 
tenance, your patronage, your friendly good offices, as the most val- 
ued consequence of my late success in life. 



No. LIII. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER. 

TO MRS. DUN LOP. 
Madam, Mauchline, ith May, 1788. 

Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I do not know whether the 
critics will agree with me, but the Georgia are to me by far 
the best of Virgil. It is indeed a species of writing entirely new 
to me ; and has tilled my head with a thousand fancies of emula- 
tion ; but, alas ! when I read the Georgics, and then survey my own. 
powers, 'tis like the idea of a Shetland poney, drawn up by the 
side of a thorough-bred hunter, to start for the plate. I own I am 
disappointed in the JErieid. Faultless correctness may please, and 
does highly please the learned critic ; but to that awful character I 
have not the most distant pretensions. I do not know whether I 
do not hazard my pretensions to be a critic of any kind, when I say 
that I think Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier of Homer. 
If 1 had the Odyssey by me, I could parallel many passages where 
Virgil has evidently copied, but by no means improved Homer. 
Nor can I think there is any thing of this owing to the translators ; 
for, from every thing I have seen of Dryden, I think him, in genius 
and fluency of language, Pope's master. I have not perused Tasso 
enough to form an opinion ; in some future letter, you shall have 
my ideas of him ; though I am conscious my criticisms must be 
very inaccurate and imperfect, as thtre I have ever felt and la- 
mented my want of learning most. 

No. LIV. 
TO THE SAME. 

Madam, 27 tk May, 1788. 

1 have been torturing my philosophy to no purpose, to account for 

that kind partiality of yours, which, unlike 

' * * ' ' • * •, has followed me in my return to the shade of 
life, with assiduous benevolence. Often did I regret in the fleeting 
hours of my late will-o'-wisp appearance, that " here I had no con- 
tinuing city ;" and but for the consolation of a few solid guineas, 
could almost lament the time that a momentary acquaintance with 
wealth and splendour put me so much out of conceit with the sworn 

companions of my road through life, insignificance and poverty. 
* ■* * * 

There are few circumstances relating to the unequal distribution 

of the good things of this life, that give me more vexation (I mean 

in what I see around me) than the importance the opulent bestow 

on their trifling family affairs, compared with the very same things 

h 5 



« 



173 burns' works. 

on the contracted scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I Lad thg 
honour to spend an hour or two at a good woman's fireside, where 
the planks that composed the floor were decorated with a splendid 
carpet, and the gay table sparkled with silver and china. 'Tis now 
about term-day, and there has been a revolution among those crea- 
tures, who, though in appearance partakers, and equally noble par- 
takers of the same nature with madame ; are from time to time 
their nerves, their sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, expe- 
rience, genius, time, nay, a good part of their very thoughts, sold 

for months and years, , not only 

to the necessities, the conveniences, but the caprices of the impor- 
tant few.* We talked of the insignificant creatures; nay, notwith- 
standing their general stupidity and rascality, did some of the poor 
devils the honour to commend them. But light be the turf upon 
his breast, who taught " Keverence thyself." We looked down on 
the unpolished wretches, their impertinent wives and clouterly 
brats, as the lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, whose puny 
inhabitants he crushes in the carelessness of his ramble, or tosses in 
the air in the wantonness of his pride. 



No. LY. 

TO THE SAME. 

AT Mft. DUNLOPS, HADDINGTON. 

Ellisland, 13th June, 1788. 
" Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthen'd chain." 

GOLDSMITH. 

This is the second day, my honoured friend, that I have been on 
my farm, A solitary inmate of an old, smoky spence ; far from 
every object I love, or by whom I am loved ; nor any acquaintance 
older than yesterday, except Jenny Geddes the old mare I ride on; 
while uncouth cares, and novel plans, hourly insult my awkward 
ignorance and bashful inexperience. There is a foggy atmosphere 
native to my soul in the hour of care, consequently the dreary ob- 
jects seem larger than the life. Extreme sensibility, irritated and 
prejudiced on the gloomy side by a series of misfortunes and disap- 
pointments, at that period of my existence when the soul is laying 
in her cargo of ideas for the voyage of life, is, I believe, the prin- 
cipal cause of this unhappy frame of mind. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ? 
Or what need he regard his single woes V &c. 

Your surmise, madam, is just; I am indeed a husband. 

1 found a once much-loved and still much-loved female, literally 
and truly cast out to the mercy of the naked elements, but as I en- 

* Servants in Scotland aie hired from term to term, i. e. from Whitsunday to 
Martinmas, &c. 



LETTERS. 179 

abled her to purchase a shelter ; and there is no sporting with a 
fellow-creature's happiness or misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweetness of disposition : a warm 
heart, gratefully devoted with all its powers to love me ; vigorous 
health and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best advantage, by 
a more than common handsome figure ; these, I think, in a woman, 
may make a good wife, though she should never have read a page, 
but the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, nor have danced in 
a brighter assembly than a penny pay- wedding. 



No. LVI. 
TO ME. P. HILL. 

My dear hill, 
I shall say nothing at all to your mad present — you have so long 
and often been of important service to me, and I suppose you mean 
to go on conferring obligations until I shall not be able to lift up 
my face before you. In the meantime, as Sir Eoger de Coverley, 
because it happened to be a cold day in which he made his will, 
ordered his servants great coats for mourning, so, because I have 
been this week plagued with an indigestion, I have sent you by the 
carrier a fine old ewe-milk cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the devil and all. It besets a 
man in every one of his senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of 
successful knavery ; and sicken to loathing at the noise and nonsense 
of self-important folly. When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me 
by the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner ; the proud man's wine so 
offends my palate, that it chokes me in the gullet ; and the pulvilis 'd 
feathered, pert coxcomb, is so disgustful in my nostril that my sto- 
mach turns. 

If ever you have any of these disagreeable sensations, let me pre- 
scribe for your patience and a bit of my cheese. I know that you 
are no niggard to your good things among your friends, and some 
of them are in much need of a slice. There in my eye is our friend 
Smellie, a man positively of the first abilities and greatest strength 
of mind, as well as one of the best hearts and keenest wits that I 
have ever met with : when you see him, as, alas ! he too is smart- 
ing at the pinch of distressful circumstances, aggravated by the 
sneer of contumelious greatness— a bit of my cheese alone will not 
cure him, but if you add a tankard of brown stout, and superadd a 
magnum of right Oporto, you will see his sorrows vanish like the 
morning mist before the sunmer sun. 

C h, the earliest friend, except my only brother, that I have 

on earth, and one of the worthiest fellows that ever any man called 
by the name of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese would help to rid 
him of some of his superabundant modesty, you would do well to 
give it him. 

David* with his Courant comes, too, across my recollection, and 
I beg you will help him largely from the said ewe-milk cheese, to 

enable him to digest those bedaubing paragraphs with which 

fee is eternally larding the lean characters of certain great men in 
* Printer of the Edinburgh Evening Courant. 



* 



180 burns' works^ 

a certain great town. I grant you the periods are very well turned ! 
so, a fresh egg is a very good thing ; but when thrown at a man in 
a pillory it does not at all improve his figure, not to mention the 
irreparable loss of the egg. 

My facetious friend, D r, I would wish also to be a partaker; 

not to digest his spleen, for that he laughs off, but to digest his last 
night's wine at the last field-day of the Crochallan corps. + 

Among our common friends I must not forget one of the dearest 
of them, Cunningham. The brutality, insolence, and selfishness of 
a world unworthy of having such a fellow as he is in it, I know 
sticks in his stomach, and if you can help him to any thing that 
will make him a little easier on that score, it will be very obliging. 

As to honest J S e, he is such a contented happy man 

that I know not what can annoy him, except perhaps he may not 
have got the better of a parcel of modest anecdotes which a certain 
poet gave him one night at supper, the last time the said poet was 
in town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men of law, I shall have no- 
thing to do with them professedly — the Faculty are beyond my pre- 
scription. As to their clients, that is another thing ; God knows 
they have much to digest ! 

The clergy 1 pass by ; their profundity of erudition, and their 
liberality of sentiment ; their total want of pride, and their detes- 
tation of hypocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as to place them 
far, far above either my praise or censure. 

I was going to mention a man of worth, whom I have the honour 
to call friend, the Laird of Craigdarroch ; but I have spoken to the 
landlord of the King's arms inn here, to have, at the next county- 
meeting, a large ewe- milk cheese on the table, for the benefit of the 
Dumfries-shire whigs, to enable them to digest the Duke of Queens- 
berry's late political conduct. 

I have just this moment an opportunity of a private hand to 
Edinburgh, as perhaps you would not digest double postage. 



No. LYII. 
TO MRS. DUXLOP. 

Mauchline, 2d August. 1788. 

Honoured kadam, 
Your kind letter welcomed me yesternight, to Ayrshire. I am in- 
deed seriously angry with you at the quantum of your lucJcpenny ; 
but vexed and hurt as I was, 1 could not help laughing very hear- 
tily at the noble lord's apology for the missed napkin. 

1 would write you from Xithsdale, and give you my direction 
there, but I have scarce an opportunity of calling at a post-office 
once in a fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, am scarcely 
ever in it myself, and, as yet, have little acquaintance in the neigh- 
bourhood. Besides, I am now very busy on my farm, building a 
dwelling house ; as at present 1 am almost an evangelical man in 
NithsdUe, for I have scarce " where to lay my head." 

There are some passages in your last that brought tears in my 

t A club oi choice Fpirits- 



LETTERS. 181 

eyes. w The heart knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger inter- 
meddleth not therewith." The repository of these " sorrows of the 
heart/' is a kind of sanctum sanctorum; and 'tis only a chosen 
friend, and that too at particular, sacred times, who dares enter 
into them. ^ 

" Heaven oft tears the bosom-chords 
That nature finest strung." 

You will excuse this quotation for the sake of the author. In- 
stead of entering on this subject farther, I shall transcribe you a 
few lines I wrote in a hermitage belonging to a gentleman in my 
Nithsdale neighbourhood. They are almost the only favours the 
muse has conferred on me in that country. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 
'Grave these maxims on thy soul : 
Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour ; 
Fear not clouds will ever lour. 

Happiness is but a name, 
Make content and ease thy aim. 
Ambition is a meteor- gleam : 
Fame, an idle restless dream : 
Peace, the tend'rest flow'r of spring ; 
Pleasures, insects on the wing. 
Those that sip the dew alone, 
Make the butterflies thy own ; 
Those that would the bloom devour, 
Crush the locusts, save the flower. 
For the future be prepared, 
Guard wherever thou canst guard ; 
But thy utmost duly done, 
Welcome what thou canst not shun. 
Follies past give thou to air, 
Make their consequence thy care : 
Keep the name of man in mind, 
And dishonour not thy kind. 
Keverence with lowly heart 
Him whose wond'rous work thou art ; 
Keep his goodness still in view, 
Thy trust and thy example too. 

Stranger go ! heaven be thy guide ! 
Quod the Beadesman of Nithside. 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, the following were the 
production of yesterday as 1 jogged through the wild hills of New 
Cumnock. I intended inserting them, or something like them, in 
an epistle I am going to write to the gentleman on whose friend- 
ship my excise hopes depend, Mr. Graham of Fintry ; one of the 



182 burns' works. 



worthiest and most accomplished gentlemen, not only of this coun- 
try, but I will dare to say it, of this age. The following are just 
the first crude thoughts " unhousel'd, unanointed, unanell'd." 
***** 

Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train ; 

Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 

The world were blest, did bless on them depend ; 

Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend !" 

The little fate bestows they share as soon ; 

Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard- wrung boon. 

Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son 

Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; 

Who feel by reason and who give by rule ; 

Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool ! 

Who make poor will do wait upon I should ; 

We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good? 

Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ; 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come * * * * 






Here the muse left me. I am astonished at what you tell me of 
Anthony's writing to me. I never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex 
me much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I shall be in Ayr- 
shire ten days from this date. I have just room for an old Koman 
farewell ! 






ISTo. LYIII. 
TO THE SAME. 

MaucKline,10th August, 1788. 

MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, 

Yours of the 24th June is before me. I found it, as well as ano- 
ther valued friend — my wife, waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : 
I met both with the sincerest pleasure. 

When I write you, madam, I do not sit down to answer every pa- 
ragraph of yours, by echoing every sentiment, like the faithful com- 
mons of Great Britain in parliament assembled, answering a speech 
from the best of kings ! I express myself in the fulness of my heart, 
and may perhaps be guilty of neglecting some of your kind inqui- 
ries ; but not from your very odd reason that I do not read your 
letters. All your epistles for several months have cost me nothing, 
except a swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep felt sentiment of 
veneration. 

Mrs. Burns, madam, is the identical woman 
When she first found herself " as women wish to be who love their 
lords;" as I loved her nearly to distraction, we took steps for a pri- 
vate marriage. Her parents got the hint ; and not only forbade 
me her company and their house, but on my rumoured West Indian 
voyage, got a warrant to put me in jail, till I should find security 
in my about-to-be paternal relation. You know my lucky reverse 
of fortune. On my eclatant return to Mauchline, 1 was made very 
welcome to visit my girl, The usual consequences began to betray 



letters; 183 

her ; and as I was at that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, she 
was turned, literally turned out of doors, and I wrote to a friend 
to shelter her, till my return, when our marriage was declared. 
Her happiness or misery was in my hands, and who could trifle 
with such a deposit ? 

***** 

I can easily fancy a more agreeable companion for my journey of 
life, but, upon my honour, I have never seen the individual in 
stance. 

***** 

Circumstanced as I am, I could never have got a female partner 
for life, who could have entered into my favourite studies, relished 
my favourite authors, &c. without probably entailing on me at the 
same time, expensive living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affec- 
tation, with all the other blessed boarding-school acquirements, 
which (pardonnez moi, madame) are sometimes to be found among 
females of the upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the 
misses of the would- be-gentry. 

***** 

I like your way in your church-yard lucubrations. Thoughts 
that are the spontaneous result of accidental situations, either re- 
specting health, place, or company, have often a strength, and al- 
ways an originality, that would in vain be looked for in fancied 
circumstances and studied paragraphs. For me, I have often 
thought of keeping a letter, in progression, by me, to send when 
the sheet was written out. Now I talk of sheets, 1 must tell you, 
my reason for writing to you on paper of this kind, is my pruriency 
of writing to you at large. A page of post is on such a dissocial, 
narrow-minded scale, that I cannot abide it ; and double letters, at 
least in my miscellaneous reverie manner, are a monstrous tax in a 
close correspondence. 

No. LIX. 

TO THE SAME. 

Ellisland, 16th August, 1788. 
I am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, to send you an ele- 
giac epistle ; and want only genius to make it quite Shenstonian. 

" Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn? 
"Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky V 

***** 
My increasing cares in this, as yet, strange country — gloomy con- 
jectures in the dark vista of futurity — consciousness of my own in- 
ability for the struggle of the world — my broadened mark to mis- 
fortune in a wife and children : — I could indulge these reflections, 
till my humour should ferment into the most acrid chagrin, that 
would corrode the very thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have sat down to write 
to you ; as I declare upon my soul 1 always find that the most 
sovereign balm for my wounded spirit. 

I was yesterday at Mr. 's to dinner, for the first time. My 

reception was quite to my mind j from the lady of the house quite 



184 burns' works. 

flattering. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two, impromptu. 
She repeated one or two to the admiration of all present. My suf- 
frage as a professional man was expected : I for once went agoniz- 
ing over the belly of my conscience. Pardon me, ye, my adored 
household gods, Independence of Spirit, and Integrity of Soul ! In 
the course of conversation, Johnson's Musical Museum, a collection 
of Scottish songs with the music, was talked of. We got a song on 
the harpsichord, beginning, 



" Raving winds around her blowing. 



The air was much admired : the lady of the house asked me whose 
were the words — "Mine, madam — they are indeed my very best 
verses :" she took not the smallest notice of them ! The old Scot- 
tish proverb says, well " king's caff is better than ither folks' corn." 
I was going to make a New Testament quotation about " casting 
pearls f but that would be too virulent, for the lady is actually a 
woman of good taste. 

* * * % & 

After all that has been said on the other side of the question, 
man is by no means a happy creature. I do not speak of the se- 
lected few, favoured by partial heaven, whose souls are tuned to 
gladness amid riches and honours, and prudence and wisdom — I 
speak of the neglected many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose 
days are sold to the minions of fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, I would transcribe for you a 
stanza of an old Scottish ballad, called The Life and Age of Man, 
beginning thus, 

" 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year 

Of God and fifty three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 

As Avritings testifie." 

I had an old grand uncle, with whom my mother lived a while in 
her girlish years ; the good old man, for such he was, was long 
blind ere he died, during which time, his highest enjoyment was 
to sit down and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old 
song of The Life and Age of Man. 

It is this way of thinking — it is those melancholy truths, that 
make religion so precious to the poor, miserable children of men — 
If it is a mere phantom, existing only in the heated imagination of 
enthusiasm, 

" What truth on earth so precious as the lie !" 

My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little sceptical, but the 
necessities of my heart always give the cold philosophizings the lie. 
Who looks for the heart weaned from earth ; the soul affianced to 
her God ; the correspondence fixed with heaven ; the pious suppli- 
cation and devout thanksgiving, constant as the vicissitudes of even 
and morn; who thinks to meet with these in the court, the palace, 
in the glare of public life 1 No : to find them in their precious im- 
portance and divine efficacy, we must search among the obscure re- 
cesses of disappointment, affliction, poverty, and distress. 

I am sure, dear mad*m, you are now more than pleased with the 
length ol my letters. I return to Ayrshire, middle of next week i 



>se 



LETTERS. 185 

and it quickens my pace to think that there will be a letter from 
you waiting me there. I must be here again very soon for my 
harvest. 



No. LX. 

0. R. GRAHAM, OF FINTRY, ESQ. 

Sir, 

When I had the honour of being introduced to you at Athole-house, 
I did not think so soon of asking a favour of you. When Lear, in 
Shakspeare, asks old Kent, why he wished to be in his service, he 
answers, u Because you have in your face which I could like to call 
master." For some such reason, sir, do I now solicit your patronage. 
You know, I dare say, of an application I lately made to your Board 
to be admitted an officer of excise. I have, according to form, been 
examined by a supervisor, and to-day I gave in his certificate, with 
a request for an order for instructions. In this affair, if I succeed, I 
am afraid I shall but too much need a patronizing friend. Propriety 
of conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention as an officer, I dare 
engage for ; but with any thing like business, except manual labour, 
I am totally unacquainted. 

% * % % * # * 

I had intended to have closed my late appearance on the stage of 
life, in the character of a country farmer ; but after discharging 
some filial and fraternal claims, I find I could only fight for exist- 
ence in that miserable manner, which I have lived to see throw a 
venerable parent into the jaws of a jail ; whence death, the poor 
man's last and often best friend, rescued him. 

I know, sir, that to need your goodness is to have a claim on it ; 
may I therefore beg your patronage to forward me in this affair, till 
I be appointed to a division, where, by the help of rigid economy, 
I will try to support that independence so dear to my soul, but 
which has been too often so distant from my situation. 

sk su. sJa. ik. Mi. ik. ik. 

"7F ^ TfT Tfr •%? Tfr vfc 

When nature her great master- piece designed, 
And iram'd her last, best work, the human mind, 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She form'd of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth ; 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandie's whole genus take their birth. 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many-aproned kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net : 
The caput mortuum of gros3 desires 
Makes a material, for mere knights and squires : 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, 









186 BURNS' \VORKS. 

Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave designs, 
Law, physics, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood, 
Nature well pleased pronounced it very good ; 
But here she gave creating labour o'er, 
Half jest, she tried one curious labour more. 
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter ; 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter ; 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we, 
Her Hogarth- art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thing, and christens it— a poet. 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
When bless'd to-day unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being form'd t' amuse his graver friends, 
Admired and praised — and there the homage ends : 
A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great. 
A title, and the only one I claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung boon. 
The world were blessed, did bless on them depend, 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend 1" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor will do wait upon i" sliould — 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute distingush'd — to bestow ! 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race : 
Come thou who giv^st with all a courtier's grace; 









LETTERS. 187 

Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 

Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 

Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, 

Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid 1 

I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 

I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 

But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 

Heavens, should the branded character be mine ! 

Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, 

Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 

Mark, how their lofty independent spirit, 

Soars on the spurning wing of injured merit ! 

Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 

Pity, the best of words, should be but wind ! 

So, to heaven's gates the lark-shrill song ascends, 

But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 

In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, 

They dun benevolence with shameless front ; 

Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays, 

They persecute you all your future days ! 

Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 

My horny fist assume the plough again ; 

The pie-ball'd jacket let me patch once more; 

On eighteen pence a- week I've lived before. 

Though, thanks to heaven, I dare even that last shift, 

I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift : 

That placed by thee, upon the wish'dfor height, 

Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 

My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight. 



No. LXI. 
TO MR. P. HILL. 

Mauchline, 1st October, 1788. 
I have been here in this country about three days, and all that 
time my chief reading has been the " Address to Loch Lomond," you 
were so obliging as to send to me. Were I impannelled one of the 
author's jury, to determine his criminality respecting the sin of 
poesy, my verdict should be " guilty ! A poet of Nature's making !" 
It is an excellent method for improvement, and what I believe 
every poet does, to place some favourite classic author, in his own 
walks of study and composition, before him, as a model. Though 
your author had not mentioned the name, I could have, at half a 
glance, guessed his model to be Thomson. Will my brother poet 
forgive me, if I venture to hint, that his imitation of that immortal 
bard, is in two or three places rather more servile than such a genius 
as his required. — e. g. 

To soothe the madding passions all to peace, 

ADDRESS. 

To soothe the throbbing passions into peace, 

THOMSON. 



188 burns' works. 

I think the Address is, in simplicity, harmony, and elegance of 
versification, fully equal to the Seasons. Like Thomson, too, he has 
looked into nature for himself : you meet with no copied descrip- 
tion. One particular criticism I made at first reading : in no one 
instance has he said too much. He never flags in his progress, but 
like a true poet of Nature's making, kindles in his course. His be- 
ginning is simple, and modest, as if distrustful of the strength of 
his pinion ; only, I do not altogether like 

■ Truth, 
The soul of every song that's nobly great." 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that is nobly great. Perhaps I 
am wrong : this may be but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase, 
in line 7, page 6, " Great lake," too much vulgarized by every- day 
language, for so sublime a poem 1 

" Great mass of waters, thence for nobler song," 

is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of a comparison with 
other lakes, is at once harmonious and poetic. Every reader's ideas 
must sweep the 

" Winding margin of an hundred miles." 

The perspective that follows mountains blue — the imprisoned 
billows beating in vain — the wooded isles — the digression on the 
yew tree — " Ben Lomond's lofty cloud- enveloped head," &c. are 
beautiful. A thunderstorm is a subject which has been often 
tried, yet our poet, in his grand picture, has interjected a circum- 
stance, so far as I know, entirely original : 

* The gloom 
Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving fire.' 

In his preface to the storm, " the glens how dark between," is 
noble highland landscape ! The " rain plowing the red mould," too, 
is beautifully fancied. Ben Lomond's "lofty, pathless top," is a 
good expression ; and the surrounding view from it is truly great ; 
the 

• Silver mist, 
1 Beneath the beaming sun,' 

is well described : and here he has contrived to enliven his poem 
with a little of that passion which bids fair, I think, to usurp the 
modern muses altogether. I know not how far this episode is a 
beauty upon the whole, but the swain's wish to carry " some faint 
idea of the vision bright," to entertain her " partial listening ear," 
is a pretty thought. But, in my opinion, the most beautiful pas- 
sages in the whole poem, are the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, 
to Loch Lomond's "hospitable flood;" their wheeling round, their 
lighting, mixing, diving, &c. and the glorious description of the 
sportsman. This last is equal to any thing in the Seasons. The 
idea of "the floating tribes distant seem, far glistering to the 
moon," provoking his eye as he is obliged to leave them, is a noble 
ray of poetic genius. " The howling winds," the " hideous roar' 
of " the white cascades," are all in the same style. 

I forget that while I am thus holding forth, with the heedless 
warmth of an enthusiast, I am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. 
I must, however, mention, that the last verse of the sixteenth page 






LETTERS. 189 

is one of the most elegant compliments I have ever seen. I must 
likewise notice that beautiful paragraph, beginning, " The gleam- 
ing lake," &c. I dare not go into the particular beauties of the 
two last paragraphs, but they are admirably fine, and truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened scrawl. I had no 
idea of it when I began— I should like to know who the author is 
but, whoever he be, please present him with my grateful thanks 
for the entertainment he has afforded me.* 

A friend of mine desired me to commission for him two books, 
Letters on the Religion essential to Man, a book you sent me before ; 
and, The World Unmasked, or the Philosopher the greatest Cheat — 
Send me them by the first opportunity. The Bible you sent me is 
truly elegant ; I only wish it had been in two volumes. 



No. LXII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM MAINS. 

Madam, Mauchline, 13th November 1788. 

I had the very great pleasure of dining at Dunlop yesterday. Men 
are said to flatter women because they are weak ; if it is so, poets 
must be weaker still ; for Misses R. and K. and Miss G. M'K., with 
their flattering attentions and artful compliments, absolutely turned 
my head. I own they did not lard me over as many a poet does his 

patron ■ but they so intoxicated me 

with their sly insinuations and delicate inuendoes of compliment 
that if it had not been for a lucky recollection, how much addi- 
tional lustre your good opinion and friendship must give me in that 
circle, I had certainly looked upon myself as a person of no small 
consequence. I dare not say one word how much I was charmed 
with the major's friendly welcome, elegant manner, and acute re- 
marks, lest 1 should be thought to balance my orientalisms of ap- 
plause over against the finest queyf in Ayrshire, which he made a 
present of to help and adorn my farm- stock. As it was on hallow- 
day, I am determined annually as that day returns, to decorate h^er 
horns with an ode of gratitude to the family of Dunlop. 

So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, I will take the first 
convenience to dedicate a day, or perhaps two, to you and friend- 
ship, under the guarantee of the major's hospitality. There will 
soon be threescore and ten miles of permanent distance between 
us ; and now that your friendship and friendly correspondence is 
entwisted with the heart-strings of my enjoyment of life, I must 
indulge myself in a happy day of " The feast of reason and the flow 
of soul." 



* The poem entitled An Address to Loch Lomond, is said to be written by a 
gentleman, now one of the masters of the High Scool at Edinburgh, and the same 
who translated the beautiful story of the Paria, as published in the Bee of Dr. 
Anderson. 

+Eeifer. 



19U burns' works 

£To. LXIII. 
TO 



Sir, November 8, 1788. 

Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets with which some of our 
philosophers and gloomy sectaries have branded our nature — the 
principle of universal selfishness, the proneness to evil, they have 
given us ; still the detestation in which inhumanity to the dis- 
tressed, or insolence to the fallen, are held by all mankind, shows 
that they are not natives of the human heart. — Even the unhappy 
partner of our kind who is undone — the bitter consequence of his 
follies or his crimes — who but sympathizes with the miseries of this 
ruined profligate brother ] we forget the injuries, and feel for the 
man. 

I went last Wednesday to my parish church, most cordially to 
join in grateful acknowledgments to the Author of all Good, for 
the consequent blessings of the glorious revolution. To that aus- 
picious event we owe no less than our liberties civil and religious ; 
to it we are likewise indebted for the present Royal Family, the 
ruling features in whose administration have ever been, mildness to 
the subject, and tenderness of his rights. 

Bred and educated in revolution principles, the principles of reason 
and common sense, it could not be any silly political prejudice 
which made my heart revolt at the harsh, abusive manner, in which 
the reverend gentleman mentioned the House of Stuart, and which 
1 am afraid was too much the language of the day. We may re- 
joice sufficiently in our deliverance from past evils, without cruelly 
raking up the ashes of those, whose misfortune it was, perhaps as 
much as their crime, to be the authors of those evils ; and we may 
bless God for all his goodness to us as a nation, without, at the same 
time, cursing a few ruined, powerless exiles, who only harboured 
ideas, and made attempts, that most of us would have done had 
we been in their situation. 

" The bloody and tyrannical House of Stuart," may be said with 
propriety and justice, when compared with the present Royal 
Family, and the sentiments of our days : but is there no allowance 
to be made for the manners of the times'? Were the royal contem- 
poraries of the Stuarts more attentive to their subjects, rights? — 
Might not the epithets of bloody and tyrannical be with at least 
equal justice, applied to the House of Tudor, of York, or any of 
their predecessors % 
^ The simple state of the case, sir, seems to be this— At that pe- 
riod, the science of government, the knowledge of the true relation 
between king and subject, wa3, like other sciences and other know- 
ledge, just in its infancy, emerging from dark ages of ignorance and 
barbarity. 

The Stuarts only contended for prerogatives which they knew 
their predecessors enjoyed, and which they saw their contemporaries 
enjoying ; but these prerogatives were inimical to the happiness 
a nation, and the rights of subjects. 

In this contest between prince and people, the consequence 
that light of science, which had lately dawned over Europe, the 
monarch of France, for example, was victorious oyer the struggling 



LETTERS, 191 

liberties of his people : "with us, luckily the monarch failed, and 
his unwarrantable pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights and hap- 
piness. Whether it was owing to the wisdom of leading individuals, 
or to the justling of parties, I cannot pretend to determine ; but 
likewise, happily for us, the kingly power was shifted into another 
branch of the family, who, as they owed the throne solely to the 
call of a free people, could claim nothing inconsistent with the 
covenanted terms which placed them there. 

The Stuarts have been condemned and laughed at for the folly 
and impracticability of their attempts in 1715 and 1745. That 
they failed, I bless God ; but cannot join in the ridicule against 
them. Who does not know that the abilities or defects of leaders 
and commanders are often hidden until put to the touchstone of 
exigency ; and that there is a caprice of fortune, an omnipotence 
in particular accidents and conjunctures of circumstances, which 
exalt us as heroes, or brand us as madmen, just as they are for or 
against us ? 

Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, inconsistent being. Who 
would believe, sir, that, in this our Augustan age of liberality and 
refinement, while we seem so justly sensible and jealous of our 
rights and liberties, and animated with such indignation against 
the very memory of those who would have subverted them — that a 
certain people, under our national protection, should complain not 
against our monarch and a few favourite advisers, but against our 
whole legislative bodt, for similar oppression, and almost in the 
very same terms, as our forefathers did of the House of Stuart ! I 
will not, I cannot enter into the merits of the cause, but I dare say 
the American Congress, in 1776, will be allowed to be as able and 
as enlightened as the English convention was in 1688 ; and that 
their posterity will celebrate the centenary of their deliverance 
from us, as duly and sincerely as we do ours from the oppressive 
measures of the wrong-headed House of Stuart. 

To conclude, sir ; let every man who has a tear for the many 
miseries incident to humanity, feel for a family illustrious as any 
in Europe, and unfortunate beyond historic precedent; and let 
every Briton (and particularly every Scotsman), who ever looked 
with reverential pity on the dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the 
fatal mistakes of the kings of his forefathers.* 



No. LXIV. 

TO MES. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 17th December, 1788. 
My dear honoured friend, 

Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just read, makes me very 
unhappy. Almost " blind and wholly deaf," are melancholy news 
of human nature ; but when told of a much loved and honoured 
friend, they carry misery in the sound. Goodness on your part, and 
gratitude on mine, began a tie, which has gradually and strongly 
entwisted itself among the dearest chords of my bosom ; and I trem- 

* This letter was sent to the publisher of some newspaper, probably the pub- 
lisher, of the Edinburgh Evening Courant. 



192 BURNS 5 WORKS. 

ble at the omens of your late and present ailing habits and shattered 
health. You miscalculate matters widely, when you forbid my 
waiting on you, lest it should hurt my worldly concerns. My small 
scale of farming is exceedingly more simple and easy than what you 
have lately seen at Moreham Mains. But be that as it may, the 
heart of the man, and the fancy of the poet, are the two grand con- 
siderations for which I live : if miry ridge3, and dirty dunghills are 
to engross the best part of the functions of my soul immortal, I had 
better been a rook or a magpie at once, and then I should not have 
been plagued with any ideas superior to breaking of clods, and pick- 
ing up grubs: not to mention barn-door cocks or mallards, creatures 
with which I could almost exchange lives at any time. — If you con- 
tinue so deaf, I am afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to either 
of us ; but if I hear you are got so well again as to be able to relish 
conversation, look you to it, madam, for I will make my threaten- 
ings good : I am to be at the new-year-day fair of Ayr, and by all 
that is sacred in the world, friend, I will come and see you. 

Your meeting, which you so well describe, with your old school- 
fellow and friend, was truly interesting. Out upon the ways of the 
world ! — They spoil these " social offsprings of the heart." Two 
veterans of the " men of the world" would have met, with little 
more heart-workings than two old hacks worn out on the road. 
Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, "Auldiang syne/ exceedingly 
expressive. There is an old song and true which has often thrilled 
through my soul. You know I am an enthusiast in old Scotch 
songs. I shall give you the verses on the other sheet, as I suppose 
Mr. Ker will save you the postage.* 

Light be the turf on the breast of the Heaven-inspired poet who 
composed this glorious fragment ! There is more of the fire of na- 
tive genius in it, than in half a dozen of modern English Bacchana- 
lians. Now I am on my hobby horse, I cannot help inserting two 
other old stanzas, which please me mightily. 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink, before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, 
The ship rides by the Berwick law, 

And I maun lea'e my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready : 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody : 
But its not the roar o' sea or shore, 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war thafs heard afar, 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 

* Here follows the song of Auld lang syne. 



LETTERS. 193 

No. LXY. 
TO A YOUNG LADY. 

WHO HAD HEARD HE HAD BEEN MAKING A BALLAD ON HER, 
INCLOSING THAT BALLAD. 

madam, December, 1783. 

I understand my very worthy neighbour, Mr. Riddel, has informed 
you that I have made you the subject of some verses. There is 
something so provoking in the idea of being the burden of a bal- 
lad, that I do not think Job or Moses, though such patterns of pa- 
tience and meekness, could have resisted the curiosity to know what 
the ballad was : so my worthy friend has done me a mischief, 
which I dare say he never intended ; and reduced me to the unfor- 
tunate alternative of leaving your curiosity ungratified, or else dis- 
gusting you with foolish verses, the unfinished production of a ran- 
dom moment, and never meant to have reached your ear. I have 
heard or read somewhere of a gentleman, who had some genius, 
much eccentricity, and very considerable dexterity with his pencil. 
In the accidental groups of life into which one is thrown, wherever 
this gentlemen met With a character in a more than ordinary de- 
gree congenial to his heart, he used to steal a sketch of the face, 
merely he said, as nota bene to point out the agreeable recollection 
to his memory. What this gentleman's pencil was to him, is my 
muse to me; and the verses I do myself the honour to send you 
are a memento exactly of the same kind that he indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousness of my caprice, than 
the delicacy of my taste, that 1 am so often tired, disgusted, and 
hurt with the insipidity, affectation and pride of mankind, that 
v hen I meet with a person " after my own heart," I positively feel 
what an orthodox protectant would call a species of idolatry which 
acts on my fancy like inspiration, and I can no more desist from 
rhyming on the impulse, than an iEolian harp can refuse its tones 
to the streaming air. A distich or two would be the consequence 
though the object w-hioh hit my fancy were grey-bearded age ; but 
where my theme is youth and beauty, a young lady whose personal 
charms, wit, and sentiment, are equally striking and unaffected, by 
heavens ! though I had lived threescore years a married man, and 
threescore years "before I was a married man, my imagination would 
hallow the very idea ; and I am truly sorry that the inch sed stanzas 
have done such poor justice to a subject. 



No. LXYI. 

TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD. 

SIR, : December, 1783. 
Mr. M'KENZiE,in Mauchline, my very warm and worthy friend, has 
informed me how much you are pleased to interest yourself in my 
fate as a man, and, (what to me is incomparably dearer) my fame 
as a poet. I have, sir, in one or two instances, been patronized by 
those of your character in life, when I was introduced to their no- 
tice by friends to them, and honoured acquaintance to 






104 



burns' works. 



me : but you are the first gentleman in the country whose benevo* 
lence and goodness of heart has interested him for me, unsolicited 
and unknown. I am not master enough of the etiquette of these 
matters to know, nor did I stay to inquire, whether formal duty 
bade, or cold propriety disallowed, my thanking you in this man- 
ner, as I am convinced, from the light in which you kindly view me, 
that you will do me the justice to believe this letter is not the 
manoeuvre of a needy, sharping author, fastening on those in upper 
life, who honour him with a little notice of him or his works. In- 
deed the situation of poets is generally such, to a proverb, as may, 
in some measure, palliate that prostitution of heart and talents 
they have been guilty of. I do not think prodigality is by any 
means, a necessary concomitant of poetic turn, but believe a care- 
less, indolent inattention to economy, is almost inseparable from 
it ; then there must be in the heart of every bard of Nature's 
making, a certain modest sensibility, mixed with a kind of pride, 
that will ever keep him out of the way of those windfalls of fortune 
which frequently light on hardy impudence and footlickng ser- 
vility. It is not easy to imagine a more helpless state than his 
whose poetic fancy unfits him for the world, and whose character as 
a scholar, gives him some pretensions to the politesse of life — yet is 
as poor as I am. 

For my part, I thank Heaven, my star has been kinder ; learning 
never elevated my ideas above the peasant's shed, and I have an 
independent fortune at the plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one, who pretended in the least 
to the manners of the gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, as to 
stoop to traduce the morals of such a one as I am, and so inhumanly 
cruel, too, as to meddle with that late most unfortunate, unhappy 
part of my story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank you, sir, for 
the warmth with which you interposed in behalf of my conduct. I 
am, I acknowledge, too frequently the sport of whim, caprice, and 
passion — but reverence to God, and integrity to my fellow- creatures, 
I hope 1 shall ever preserve. I have no return, sir, to make you for 
your goodness but one — a return which, I am persuaded, will not 
be unacceptable — the honest, warm wishes of a grateful heart for 
your happines, and every one of that lovely flock, who stand to you 
in a filial relation. If ever calumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, 
may friendship be by to guard the blow ! 



No. LXYII. 
FKOM ME. G. BURNS. 

Mossgiel, 1st January, 1789. 

DEAR BROTHER, 

I have just finished my new-year's- day breakfast in the usual form, 
which naturally makes me call to mind the days of former years, 
and the society in which we used to begin them ; and when I look 
at onr family vicissitudes, " through the dark postern of time long 
elapsed," I cannot help remarking to you, my dear brother, how 
good the God of Seasons is to us ; and that however some clouds 
may seem to lower over the portion of time before us, we have great 
reason to hope that all will turn out well. 



' LETTERS. 19S 

Your mother and sisters, with Robert the second, join me in the 
compliments of the season to you and Mrs. Burns, and beg you will 
remember us in the same manner to William, the first time you see 
him. I am, dear brother, yours, 

GILBERT BURNS. 



No. LXVIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, New- Year-Day Morning, 1789. 
This, dear madam, is a morning of wishes, and would to God that I 
came under the apostle James's description ! — the prayer of a righte* 
o%is man availeih much. In that case, madam, you should welcome 
in a year full of blessings ; every thing that obstructs or disturbs 
tranquility and self-enjoyment, should be removed, and every plea- 
sure that frail humanity can taste, should be yours. I own myself 
so little a Presbyterian, that I approve of set times, and seasons 
of more than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking in on that ha- 
bituated routine of life and thought, which is so apt to reduce our 
existence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, and with some 
minds, to a state very little superior to mere machinery. 

This day ; the first Sunday of May ; a breezy, blue skyed noon 
some time about the beginning, and a hoary morning and calm 
sunny day about the end, of autumn ; these, time out of mind, have 
been with me a kind of holiday. 

7& ^ ?£ Sfc -Jfc 

I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the Spectator, " The 
Yision of Mirza ;" a piece that struck my fancy before I was capable 
of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables : " On the 5th of the 
moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always 
keep holy, after having washed myself, and offered up my morning 
devotions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the 
rest of the day in meditation and prayer." 

AVe know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or 
structure of our souls, so cannot account for those seeming caprices, 
in them, that one should be particularly pleased with this thing, or 
struck with that, which, on minds of a different cast, makes no ex- 
traordinary impression. I have some favourite flowers in spring, 
among which are the mountain daisy, the hare-bell, the fox-glove, 
wild-brier rose, the budding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I 
view and hang over with peculiar delight. I never heard the loud, 
solitary whistle of the curlew, in a summer noon, or the wild mix- 
ing cadence of a troop of grey plovers, in an autumnal morning, 
without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm of devotion 
or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be owing? 
Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the iEolian harp, passive, 
takes the impression of the passing accident ? Or do these work- 
ings argue something within us above the trodden clod % I own 
myself partial to such proofs of those awful and important reali- 
ties — a God that made all things — man's immaterial and immortal 
nature— and a world of weal or woe beyond death and the grave, 



196 burn's works. 

No. LXIX. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

sir, Ellislandf near Dumfries, 4th Jan. 17"29 

As of i en as I think of writing to you, which, has been three or four 
times every week, these six months, it gives me something so like 
the idea of an ordinary- sized statue offering at a conversation with 
the Rhodian Colossus, that my mind misgives me, and the affair al- 
ways miscarries somewhere between purpose and resolve. I have, 
at last, got some business with you, and business-letters are written 
by the style-book. — 1 say my business is with you, sir, for you have 
never had any with me, except the busines that benevolence has in 
the manner of poverty. 

The character and employment of a poet were formerly my 
pleasure, but are now my pride. I know that a very great deal of 
my late eclat was owing to the singularity of my situation, and the 
honest prejudice of Scotsmen; but still, as I said in the preface to 
my first edition, I do look upon myself as having some pretensions 
from Nature to the poetic character. I have not a doubt but the 
knack, the aptitude, to learn the muses' trade, is a gift bestowed by 
Him " who forms the secret bias of the soul ;" — but as I firmly be- 
lieve, that excellence in the profession is the fruit of industry, labour, 
attention, and pains. At least I am resolved to try my doctrine by 
the test of experience. Another appearance from the press I put 
off to a very distant day, a day that may never arrive — but poesy I 
am determined to prosecute with all my vigour. Nature has given 
very few, if any, of the profession, the talents of shining in every 
species of composition. I shall try (for until trial it is impossible 
to know) whether she has qualified me to shine in any one. The 
worst of it is, by the time one has finished a piece, it has been so 
often viewed and reviewed before the mental eye, that one loses, 
in a good measure, the powers of critical discrimination. Here 
the best criterion I know is a friend — not only of abilities to judge, 
but with good nature enough like a prudent teacher with a young 
learner, to praise perhaps a little more than exactly just, lest the 
thin-skinned animal fall into that most deplorable of all poetic 
diseases — heart-breaking despondency of himself. Dare I, sir, al- 
ready immensely indebted to your goodness, ask the additional obli- 
gation of your being that friend to me % 1 enclose you an essay of 
mine, in a walk of poesy to me entirely new ; I mean the epistle 
addressed to R. G. Esq. or, Robert Graham, of Eintry. Esq. a 
gentleman of uncommon worth, to whom 1 lie under very great 
obligations. The story of the poem, like most of my poems, is con- 
nected with my own story, and to give you the one, I must give you 
something of the other. I cannot boast of 

I believe I shall, in whole, £100 copy-right included, clear about 
£400 some little odds ; and even part of this depends upon what 
the gentleman has yet to settle with me. I give you this informa- 
tion, because you did me the honour to interest yourself much in 
my welfare. 

To give the rest of my story in brief, I have married ° my Jean,'* 



LETTERS. 197 

and taken a farm ; with the first step I have every day more and 
more reason to be satisfied ; with the last, it is rather the reverse. — 
I have a younger brother, who supports mv aged mother ; another 
still younger brother and three sisters in a farm. On my last re- 
turn from Edinburgh, it cost me about £180 to save them from 
ruin. Not that I have lost so much— 1 only interposed between my 
brother and his impending fate by the loan of so much. I give 
myself no airs on this, for it was mere selfishness on my part ; I 
was conscious that the wrong scale of the balance was pretty hea- 
vily charged ; and I thought that throwing a little filial piety, and 
fraternal affection, into the scale in my favour, might help to 
smooth matters at the grand reckoning. There is still one thing 
would make my circumstances quite easy ; I have an excise officer's 
commission, and I live in the midst of a country division. My re- 
quest to Mr. Graham, who is one of the commissioners of excise, 
was, if in his power, to procure me that division. If I were very 
sanguine, I might hope that some of my great patrons might pro- 
cure me a treasury warrant for supervisor, surveyor-general, &c. 

Thus secure of a livelihood, "to thee, sweet poetry, delightful maid," 
I would consecrate my future days. 



No. LXX. 
TO BISHOP GEDDES. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, Zd Feb. 1789 

VENERABLE FATHER, 

As I am conscious that wherever I am you do me the honour to in- 
terest yourself in my welfare, it gives me pleasure to inform you 
that I am here at last, stationary in the serious business of life, and 
have now not only the retired leisure, but the hearty inclination, 
to attend to those great and important questions — what I am 1 ? where 
I am ] and for what I am destined ? 

In that first concern, the conduct of the man, there was ever but 
one side on which I was habitually blameable, and there I have se- 
cured myself in the way pointed out by Nature and Nature's God. 
I was sensible that, to so helpless a creature as a poor poet, a wife 
and family were incumbrances, which a species of prudence would 
bid him shun ; but when the alternative was, being at eternal war- 
fare with myself, on account of habitual follies, to give them no 
worse name, which no general example, no licentious wit, no sophis- 
tical infidelity would, to me, ever justify, I must have been a fool 
to have hesitated, and a madman to have made another choice. 
***** 

In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself tolerably secure ; I 
have good hopes of my farm j but should they fail, I have an excise 
commission, which on my simple petition, will, at any time, pro- 
cure me bread. There is a certain stigma affixed to the character 
of an excise officer, but I do not intend to borrow honour from any 
profession ; and though the salary be comparatively small, it is 
great to any thing that the first twenty-live years of my life taught 
me to expect. 



198 burns' works. 

Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, you may easily 
guess my reverend and much-honoured friend, that my character* 
istical trade is not forgotten. I am, if possible, more than ever an 
enthusiast to the muses. 1 am determined to study man and na- 
ture, and in that view incessantly ; and to try if the ripening and 
corrections of years can enable me to produce something worth 
preserving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg your pardon for detaining 
so long, that I have been turning my lyre on the banks of .N"ith. 
Some larger poetic plans that are floating in my imagination, or partly 
put in execution, 1 shall impart to you when I have the pleasure of 
meeting with you, which, if you are then in Edinburgh, I shall 
have about the beginning of March. 

That acquaintance, worthy sir, with which you were pleased to 
honour me, you must still allow me to challenge; for with what- 
ever unconcern I give up my transient connection with the merely 
great, I cannot lose the patronizing notice of the learned and the 
good, without the bitterest regret. 



No. LXXI. 
FKOM THE KEY. P. C- 



sir, 2d January, 1789. 

If you have lately seen Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop, you have certainly 
heard of the author of the verses which accompany this letter. He 
was a man highly respectable for every accomplishment and virtue 
which adorns the character of a man or a Christian. To a great 
degree of literature, of taste, and poetic genius, was added an invin- 
cible modesty of temper, which prevented, in a great degree, his figur- 
ing in life, and confined the perfect knowledge of his character and 
talents to the small circle of his chosen friends. He was untimely 
taken from us, a few weeks ago, by an inflamatory fever, in the prime 
of life — beloved by all, who enjoyed his acquaintance, lamented by 
all, who have any regard for virtue and genius. There is a woe 
pronounced in Scripture against the person whom all men speak 
well of ; if ever that woe fell upon the head of mortal man, it fell 
upon him. He has left behind him a considerable number of com- 
positions, chiefly poetical ; sufficient, I imagine, to make a large oc- 
tavo volume. In particular, two complete and regular tragedies, a 
farce of three acts, and some smaller poems on different subjects. 
It falls to my share, who have always lived in the most intimate 
and uninterrupted friendship with him from my youth upwards, 
to transmit to you the verses he wrote on the publication of your 
incomparable poems. It is probable they were his last, as they were 
found in his scrutoire, folded up in the form of a letter addressed 
to you, and I imagine, were only prevented from being sent by him- 
self, by that melancholy dispensation which we still bemoan. The 
verses themselves I will not pretend to criticise when writing to a 
gentleman whom I consider as entirely qualified to judge of their 
merit. They are the only verses he seems to have attempted in the 
Scottish style ; and I hesitate not to say, in general, that they will 
bring no dishonour on the Scottish muse ; — and allow me to add, 
that if it is your opinion they are not unworthy of the author, and 



LETTEKS, 199 

will be no discredit to you, it is the inclination of Mr. Mylne's 
friends, that they should be immediately published in some periodi- 
cal work, to give the world a specimen of what may be expected 
from his performances in the poetic line, which, perhaps, will be 
afterwards published for the advantage of his family. 

I must beg the favour of a letter from you, acknowledging the 
receipt of this, and to be allowed to subscribe myself with great re- 
gard, 

Sir, your most obedient servant, 

P. C. , 

JSTo. LXXIL 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 4th March, 1789. 

Here am I, my honoured friend, returned safe from the capital. 
To a man, who has a home, however humble or remote — if that 
home is like mine, the scene of domestic comfort — the bustle of 
Edinburgh will soon be a business of sickening disgust. 
" Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you." 

When I must sculk into a corner, lest the rattling equipage of 
some gaping blockhead should mangle me in the mire, 1 am tempted 
to exclaim — " What merits has he had, or what demerit have I 
had, in some state of pre- existence, that he is ushered into this 
state of being with the sceptre of rule, and the key of riches, in hi3 
puny fist, and I am kicked into the world, the sport; of folly, or the 
victim of pride V I have read somewhere of a monarch (in Spain I 
think it was), who was so out of humour with the Ptolemean sys- 
tem of astronomy, that he said, had he been of the Ckeator's coun- 
cil, he could have saved him a great deal of labour and absurdity. 
I will not defend this blasphemous speech ; but often, as I have 
glided with humble stealth through the pomp of Prince's-street, it 
has suggested itself to me, as an improvement on the present human 
figure, that a man, in proportion to his own conceit of his conse- 
quence in the world, could have pushed out the longitude of his 
common size, as a snail pushes out his horns, or as we draw a 
perspective. This trifling alteration, not to mention the prodi- 
gious saving it would be in the tear and wear of the neck and 
limb-sinews of many of his Majesty's liege subjects in the way of 
tossing the head and tiptoe strutting, would evidently turn out a 
vast advantage, in enabling us at once to adjust the ceremonials in 
making a bow, or making way to a great man, and that too within 
a second of the precise spherical angle of reverence, or an inch of 
the particular point of respectful distance, which the important 
creature itself requires ; as a measuring glance at its towering alti- 
tude would determine the affair like instinct. 

You are right, madam, in your idea of poor Mylne's poem, which 
he has addressed to me. The piece has a~good deal of merit, but it 
has one great fault — it is, by far, to 3 long. Besides, my success has 
encouraged such a shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into pub- 
lic notice, under the title of Scottish Poets, that the very term of 



200 burns' works. 

Scottish Poetry borders on the burlesque. When I write to Mr. C. 
I shall advise him rather to try one of his deceased friend's English 
pieces. I am prodigiously hurried with my own matters, else I 
would have requested a perusal of all Mylne's poetic performances ; 
and would have offered his friends my assistance in either selecting 
or correcting what would be proper for the press. What it is that 
occupies me so much, and perhaps a little oppresses my present 
spirits, shall fill up a paragraph in some future letter. In the mean- 
time allow me to close this epistle with a few lines done by a friend 

of mine I give you them, that as 

you have seen the original, you may guess whether one or two 
alterations I have ventured to make in them, be any real improve- 
ment. 

Like the fair plant that from our touch withdraws, 
Shrink mildly fearful even from applause, 
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream, 

And all you are, my charming , seem. 

Straight as the fox glove, ere her bells disclose, 
Mild as the maiden blushing hawthorn blows, 
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind, 
Your form shall be the image of your mind : 
Your manners shall so true your soul express. 
That all shall long to know the worth they guess ; 
Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love, 
And ev'n sick'ning envy must approve.* 



tfo. LXXIII. 

TO THE KEY. P. CARFRAE. 

Reverend Sir, 1789. 

I do not recollect that I have ever felt a severer pang of shame, 
than on looking at the date of your obliging letter, which accom- 
panied Mr. Mylne's poem. 

I am much to blame : the honour Mr. Mylne has done me, greatly 
enhanced in its value by the endearing, though melancholy circum- 
stance, of its being the last production of his muse, deserved a better 
return. 

I have, as you hint, thought of sending a copy of the poem to 
some periodical publication ; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid 
that, in the present case, it would be an improper step. My success, 
perhaps as much accidental as merited, has brought an indundation 
of nonsense under the name of Scottish poetry. Subscription- bills 
for Scottish poems have so dunned, and daily do dun the public, 
that the very name is in danger of contempt. For these reasons, 
if publishing any of Mr. M's poems in a magazine, &c, be at all 
prudent, in my opinion it certainly should not be a Scottish poem. 
The profits of the labours of a man of genius, are, I hope, as hon- 
ourable as any profits whatever ; and Mr. Mylne's relations are 
most justly entitled to that honest harvest, which fate has denied 

* These beautifml lincf, we have reason to believe, are the production of the 
lady to ffhom this letter is addressed. 



LETTERS* 201 

himself to reap. But let the friends of Mr. Mylne's fame (among 
whom I crave the honour of ranking myself,) always keep in eye 
his respectability as a man and a poet, and take no measure that, 
before the world knows any thing about him, would risk his name 
and character being classed with the fools of the times. 

I have, sir, some experience of publishing ; and the way in which 
I would proceed with Mr. Mylne's poems, is this : — I would publish 
in two or three English and Scottish public papers, any one of hia 
English poems which should, by private judges, be thought the 
most excellent, and mention it at the same time, as one of the pro- 
ductions of a Lothian fa: mer, of respectable character, lately de- 
ceased, whose poems his friends had it in idea to publish soon, by 
subscription, for the sake of his numerous family : — not in pity to 
that family, but in justice to what his friends think the poetic 
merits of the deceased ; and to secure, in the most effectual manner, 
to those tender connexions, whose right it is, the pecuniary reward 
of those merits. 



No. LXXIY. 
TO DR. MOORE. 
sir, Ellislancl, 23d March, 1789. 

The gentleman who will deliver this is a Mr : Nielson, a worthy 
clergyman in my neighbourhood, and a very particular acquain- 
tance of mine. As I have troubled him with this packet, I must 
turn him over to your goodness, to recompense him for it in a way 
in which he much needs your assistance, and where you can effec- 
tually serve him : — Mr. Nielsen is on his way for France, to wait 
on his Grace of Queensbury, on some little business of a good deal 
of importance to him, and he wishes for your instructions respect- 
ing the most eligible mode of travelling, kc- for him, when he has 
crossed the channel. I should not have dared to take this liberty 
with you, but that I am told, by those who have the honour of 
your personal acquaintance, that to be a poor honest Scotchman is 
a letter of recommendation to you, and that to have it in your 
power to serve such a character, gives you much pleasure. 

The enclosed ode is a compliment to the memory of the late Mrs. 
of . You probably knew her personally, an honour 



of which I cannot boast ; but I spent my early years in her neigh- 
bourhood, and among her servants and tenants. 1 know that she 
was detested with the most heartfelt cordiality. However, in the 
particular part of her conduct which roused my poetic wrath, she 
was much less blameable. In January last, on my road to Ayrshire, 
I had put up at Bailie Wigham's in Sanquhar, the only tolerable 
inn in the place. The frost was keen, and the grim evening and 
howling wind was ushering in a night of snow and drift. My horse 
and I were very much fatigued with the labours of the day, and 
just as my friend the Bailie and I were bidding defiance to the 
storm, over a smoking bowk in wheels the funeral pageantry of the 

late great Mr*. , and poor 1 am forced to brave ail the hor< 

i of the tempestuous nighty and jade my horse,, my young favouri 



202 burns' works. 

ite horse, whom I had just christened Pegasus, twelve miles further 
on, through the wildest muirs and hills of Ayrshire, to New Cum- 
nock, the next inn. The powers of poesy and prose sink under me, 
when I would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say, that when a 
good fire, at New Cumnock, had so far recovered my frozen sinews, 
I sat down and wrote the enclosed ode. 

I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally with Mr. Creech ; 
and I must own, that, at last, he has been amicable and fair with me. 



No. LXXV. 

Ellisland, 2d April, 1789. 
I will make no excuses, my dear Bibliopolus,, (God forgive me for 
murdering language !) that I have sat down to write you on this 

vile paper. 

* * * 

It is economy, sir; it is that cardinal virtue, prudence; so I beg 
you will sit down, and either compose or borrow a panegyric. If 

you are going to borrow, apply to 

* * * 

to compose, or rather to compound, something very clever on my 
remarkable frugality ; that I write to one of my most esteemed 
friends on this wretched paper, which was originally intended for 
the venal fist of some drunken exciseman, to take dirty notes in a 
miserable vault of an ale- cellar. 

frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand blessings — thou cook 
of fat beef and dainty greens ! — thou manufacturer of warm Shet- 
land hose, and comfortable surtouts ! — thou old housewife, darning 
thy decayed stockings with thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ; 
lead me, hand me in thy clutching palsied fist, up those heights, 
and through those thickets, hitherto inaccessible, and impervious to 
my anxious wearied feet : — not those Parnassian craggs, bleak and 
barren, where the hungry worshippers of fame are, breathless, clam- 
bering, hanging between heaven and hell; but those glittering 
cliffs of Potosi, where the all-sufficient, all-powerful deity, Wealth, 
holds his immediate court of joys and pleasures; where the sunny 
exposure of plenty, and the hot walls of profusion, produce those 
blissful fruits of luxury, exotics in this world, and natives of para- 
dise — Thou withered sybil, my sage conductress, usher me into the 
refulgent, adored presence ! — The power, splendid and potent as he 
now is, was once the puling nursling of thy faithful care, and ten- 
der arms ! Call me thy son, thy cousin, thy kinsman, or favourite, 
and adjure the god, by the scenes of his infant years, no longer to 
repulse me as a stranger or an alien, but to favour me with his pe- 
culiar countenance and protection ! He daily bestows his greatest 
kindness on the undeserving and the worthless — assure him, that I 
bring ample documents of meritorious demerits ! Pledge yourself 
for me, that, for the glorious cause of Lucre, I will do any thing, 
be any thing — but the horse-leach of private oppression, or the vul- 
ture of public robbery ! 

* # # 

But to descend from heroics, 



LETTERS. 203 

I want a Shakspeare; I want likewise an English dictionary — 
Johnson's, I suppose, is best. In these and all my prose commis- 
siors, the cheapest is always the best for me. There is a small 
debt of honour that I owe Mr. Robert Cleghorn, in Saughton mills, 
my worthy friend, and your well-wisher. Please give him, and 
urge him to take it, the first time you see him, ten shillings worth 
of any thing you have to sell, and place it to my account. 

The library scheme that I mentioned to you is already begun, 
under the direction of Captain Riddel. There is another in emu- 
lation of it going on at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr. Mon- 
teith, of Closeburn, which will be on a greater scale than ours. 
Captain E. gave his infant society a great many of his old books, 
else I had written you on that subject ; but, one of these days, I shall 
trouble you with a commission for " The Monkland Friendly 
Society," — a copy of The Spectator, Mirror, and Lounger ; Man of 
the World, Guthrie's Geographical Grammar, with some religious 
pieces, will likely be our first order. 

When I grow richer, 1 will write to you on gilt post, to make 
amends for this sheet. At present, every guinea has a five guinea 
errand with My dear sir, 

Your faithful, poor, but honest friend, 

R. B. 



No. LXXYI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 2d April, 1789. 






I no sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy, but I wish to send it to 
you ; and if knowing and reading these give half the pleasure to 
you, that communicating them to you gives to me, I am satisfied. 

I have a poetic whim in my head, which I at present dedicate, or 
rather inscribe, to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox ; but how long that 
fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the first lines I have just 
rough-sketched, as follows : — 

SKETCH. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their white ; 
How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction — 
I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should bustle, 
I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory, 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 
No man with the half of e'xn e'er went quite right ; 









204 BURNS' WORKS. 

A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man ! for as simple he looks, 
Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks ; 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, 
And in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours, 
That like the old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours : 
Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you know him ? 
Pull the string, ruling passion, the picture will show him. 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 
One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd him ; 
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 
And think human nature they truly describe ; 
Have you found this, or t'other % there's more in the wind, 
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find. 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, 
In the make of that wonderful creature call'd Man, 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two different shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 

On the 20th current I hope to have the honour of assuring you, 
in person, how sincerely I am, 



No. LXXYII. 
TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

My Dear Sir, Ellisland, 4tk May, 1789. 

Your duty free favour of the 26th April I received two days ago : I 
will not say I perused it with pleasure ; that is the cold com- 
pliment of ceremony ; 1 perused it, sir, with delicious satisfaction. 
—In short, it is such a letter, that not you nor your friend, but the 
legislature; by express proviso in their postage laws, should frank. 
A letter informed with the soul of friendship is such an honour to 
human nature, that they should order it free ingress and egress to 
and from their bags, and mails, as an encouragement and mark of 
distinction to super eminent virtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a little poem which I think 
will be something to your taste.* One morning lately as I was 
out pretty early in the fields sowing some grass seeds, I heard 
the burst of a shot from a neighbouring plantation, and presently a 
poor little wounded hare came crippling by me. You will guess 
my indignation at the inhuman fellow who could shoot a hare at 
this season, when they all of them have young ones. Indeed there 
omething in that business of destroying, for our sport, individr^ 

f See Poem c, 'On Seeing a Fellr«w Wound a Hare. 



LETTERS, 2U5 

als in the animal creation that do not injure us materially, which I 
coiild never reconcile to my ideas of virtue. 

Let me know how you like my poem. I am doubtful whether it 
would not be an improvement to keep out the last stanza but one 
altogether. 

C is a glorious production of the author of man. You, he, 

and the noble Colonel of the C F are, to me, 

41 Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my breast." 
I have a good mind to make verses on you all, to the tune of " three 
good fellows ay out the glen" 

No. LXXVIII. 

[The poem, in the preceding letter, had also been sent by our bard 
to Dr. Gregory for his criticism. The following is that gentleman's 
reply-] 

FROM DR. GREGORY. 

DEAR sir, Edinburgh, 2nd June, 1789. 

I take the first leisure hour I could command, to thank you for 
your letter, and the copy of verses inclosed in it. As there is real 
poetic merit, I mean both fancy, and tenderness and some happy 
expressions, in them, 1 think they well deserve that you should re- 
vise them carefully and polish them to the utmost. This I am sure 
you can do if you please, for you have great command both of ex- 
pression and of rhymes : and you may j udge from the two last 
pieces of Mrs. Hunter's poetry, that I gave you, how much correct- 
ness and high polish enhance the value of such compositions. As 
you desire it, I shall, with great freedom, give you my most rigorous 
criticisms on your verses. 1 wish you would give me another edition 
of them, much amended, and I will send it to Mrs. Hunter, who I 
am sure, will have much pleasure in reading it. Pray, give me 
likewise for myself, and her too, a copy (us much amended as you 
please) of the Water Fowl on Loch Turit. 

The Wounded Hare is a pretty good subject ; but the measure, or 
stanza, you have chosen for it, is not a good one; it does not floio 
well ; and the rhyme of the fourth line is almost lost by its distance 
from the first ; and the two interposed, close rhymes. If 1 were 
you, I would put it into a different stanza yet. 

Stanza 1. — The execrations in the first two line3 are strong or 
coarse ; but they may pass. " Murder-aiming" is a bad compound 
epithet, and not very intelligible. " Blood-stained," in stanza iii. 
line 4, has the same fault : Bleeding bosom is infinitely better. 
You have accustomed yourself tq such epithets, and have no notion 
how stiff and quaint they appear to others, and how incongruous 
with poetic fancy, and tender sentiments. Suppose Pope had writ- 
ten, " Why that blood-stained bosom gored," how would you have 
liked it ] Form is neither a poetic, nor a dignified, not a plain, 
common word : it is a mere sportsman's word ; unsuitable to pa* 
thetic or serious poetry. 

" Mangled" ia a coarse word. " Innocent," in this sense, is a nur- 
sery, word ; but both may pass. 

Stmw 4,w Who will now provide that life a mother o$lv e^% 



206 BURNS' WORKS. 

bestow," will not do at all : it is not grammar— it is not intelli- 
gible. Do you mean " provide for that life which the mother had 
bestowed and used to provide for V 

There was a ridiculous slip of the pen, " Feeling" (I suppose) for 
" Fellow," in the title of your copy of verses ; but even fellow would 
be wrong: it is but a colloquial and vulgar word, unsuitable to 
your sentiments. 

u Shot" is improper too. — On seeing a person (or a sportsman) 
wound a hare ; it is needless to add with what weapon ; but if you 
think otherwise, you should say, with a fowling-piece. 

Let me see you when you come to town, and I will show you 
some more of Mrs. Hunter's poems.* 



No. LXXIX. 
TO MR. M'AULEY. 

OF DUMBARTON. 

dear sir, Uh June, 1789. 

Though I am not without my fears respecting my fate at that 
grand, universal inquest of right and wrong, commonly called The 
Last Day, yet I trust there is one sin, which that arch-vagabond, 
Satan, who, I understand, is to be king's evidence, cannot throw 
in my teeth — I mean ingratitude. There is a certain pretty large 
quantum of kindness for which I remain, and from inability, I fear 
must remain your debtor ; but though unable to repay the debt, I 
assure you, sir, I shall ever warmly remember the obligation. It 
gives me the sincerest pleasure to hear by my old acquaintance, Mr. 
Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allan's language, " Hale and 
weel, and living ;" and that your charming family are well, and 
promising to be an amiable and respectable addition to the com- 
pany of performers, whom the Great Manager of the Drama of Man 
is bringing into action for the succeeding age. 

With respect to my welfare, a subject in which you once warmly 
and effectively interested yourself, I am here in my old way, hold- 
ing my plough, marking the growth of my corn, or the health of 
my dairy ; and at times sauntering by the delightful windings of 
the Nith, on the margin of which I have built my humble domicile, 
praying for seasonable weather, or holding an intrigue with the 
Muses ; the only gipseys with whom I have now any intercourse. 
As I am entered into the holy state of matrimony, I trust my face 
is turned completely Zion-ward ; and as it is a rule with all honest 
fellows, to repeat no grievances, I hope that the little poetic licen- 
ces of former days, will of course fall under the oblivious influence 
of some good-natured statute of celestial proscription. In my family 
devotion, which, like a good presbyterian, I occasionally give to my 
household folks, I am extremely fond of the psalm, " Let not the 

* It must be admitted, that this criticism is not more distinguished by its good 
sense, than by its freedom from ceremony. It is impossible not to smile at the 
manner in which the poet may be supposed to have received it. In fact it appears, 
as the sailors say, to have thrown him quite a-back. In a letter which he wrote 

Boon after, he says, "Dr. G — is "a good man, but he crucifies me. ; '«- And 

again, " I believe in the iron justice of Dr. G ; but like the devils,. I belief 

and tremble," floweyer, he profited by these criticism? . 



LETTERS. 207 

errors of my youth," &c. and that other, ia Lo, children are God's 
heritage," &c. in which last Mrs. Burns, who, by the bye, has a glo- 
rious " wood-note wild" at either old song or psalmody, joins me 
with the pathos of Handel's Messiah. 



£To. LXXX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

DEAR madam, Ellisland, 21st June, 1789. 

Will you take the effusions, the miserable effusions of low spirits, 
just as they flow from their bitter spring. I know not of any parti- 
cular cause for this worst of all my foes besetting me, but for some 
time my soul has been beclouded with a thickening atmosphere of 
evil imaginations and gloomy presages. 

Monday Evening, 

I have just heard give a sermon. He is a man 

famous for his benevolence, and I revere him ; but from such ideas 
of my Creator, good Lord deliver me ! Eeligion, my honoured 
friend, is surely a simple business, as it equally concerns the ignor- 
ant and the learned, the poor and the rich. That there is an in- 
comprehensible great Being, to whom I owe my existence, and that 
he must be intimately acquainted with the operations and progress 
of the internal machinery, and consequent outward deportment of 
this creature which he has made ; these are, I think, self-evident 
propositions. That there is a real and eternal distinction between 
virtue and vice, and consequently that I am an accountable crea- 
ture ; that from the seeming nature of the human mind, as well as 
from the evident imperfection, nay positive injustice, in the admi- 
nistration of affairs, both in the natural and moral worlds, there 
must be a retributive scene of existence beyond the grave ; must, I 
think, be allowed by every one who will give himself a moment's 
reflection. I will go farther, and affirm, that from the sublimity, 
excellence, and purity of his doctrine and precepts, unparalled by 
all the aggregated wisdom and learning of many preceding ages, 
though, to appearance, he himself was the obscurest and most illi- 
terate of our species ; therefore, Jesus Christ was from God. 

Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases the happiness of others, 
this is my criterion of goodness : and whatever injures society at large 
or any individual in it, this is my measure of iniquity. 

What think you, madam, of my creed 1 I trust that I have said 
nothing that will lessen me in the eye of one, whose good opinion 
I value almost next to the approbation of my own mind, 

No. LXXXT. 

FROM DR. MOORE, 

DEAR sir, Clifford Street, 10 th June, 1789. 

Thahk you for the different communications you have made me of 
your occasional productions in manuscript, all of which have merit 
2nd some^f them merit of a different kind from what appears ii| 



208 BURNS' WORKS. 

the poems you have published. You ought carefully to preserve 
all your occasional productions, to correct and improve them at 
your leisure : and when you can select as many of these as will 
make a volume, publish it either at Edinburgh or London, by 
subscription : On such an occasion, in may be in my power, as it 
is very much in my inclination, to be of service to you. 

If I were to offer an opinion, it would be, that in your future 
productions you should abandon the Scotish stanza and dialect, and 
adopt the measure and language of modern English poetry. 

The stanza which you use in imitation of Christ Kirk on the Green, 
with the tiresome repetition of " that day," is fatiguing to English 
ears, and I should think not very agreeable to Scottish. 

All the fine satire and humour of your Holy Fair is lost on the 
English ; yet, without more trouble to yourself, you could have 
conveyed the whole to them. The same is true of some of your 
other poems. In your Ejnstle to J. S , the stanza from that be- 
ginning with this line, " This life, so far's 1 understand," to that 
which ends with, " Short while it grieves," are easy, flowing, gaily 
philosophical, and of Horatian elegance — the language is English, 
with a few Scottish words, and some of those so harmonious, as to 
add to the beauty : for what poet would not prefer gloaming to 
twilight. 

I imagine, that by carefully keeping, and occasionally polishing 
and correcting these verses, which the muse dictates, you will 
within a year or two, have another volume as large as the first, 
ready for the press ; and this without diverting you from every 
proper attention to the study and practice of husbandry, in which 
I understand you are very learned, and which I fancy you will 
choose to adhere to as a wife, while poetry amuses you from time to 
time as a mistress. The former like a prudent wife, must not show 
ill humour, although you show a sneaking kindness to this agree- 
able gipsey, and pay her occasional visits, which in no manner 
alienates your heart from your lawful spouse, but tends on the con- 
trary to promote her interest. 

I desired Mr. Cadell to write to Mr. Creech to send you a copy of 
Zeluco. This performance has had great success here, but I shall 
be glad to have your opinion of it, because I know you are above 
saying what you do not think. 

I beg you will offer my best wishes to my very good friend Mrs. 
Hamilton, who 1 understand is your neighbour. If she is as happy 
as I wish her, she is happy enough. Make my compliments also to 
Mrs. Bums, and believe me to be, with sincere esteem, 

Dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. LXXXII. 

FROM MISS J. L 

sir, Loudon- House, 12zA July, 1717. 

Though I have not the happiness of being personally acquainted 
with you, yet amongst the number of those who have read and ad- 
mired your publications, may I be permuted to trouble you with 
this, You must know, sir, I am somewhat in love with the Muses 4 
though I cannot boast of any i\i yours they have deigned to qqjj 



LETTERS. 



209 



upon me as yet ; my situation in life has been very much against 
me as to that. I have spent some years in and about Ecclefechan 
(where my parents reside), in the station of a servant, and am now 

come to Loudon-House, at present possessed by Mrs. H : she is 

daughter to Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop, whom I understand you are 
acquainted with. As I had the pleasure of perusing your poems, I 
felt a partiality for the author, which I should not have experienced 
had you been in more dignified station. I wrote a few verses of ad- 
dress to you, which I did not then think of ever presenting : but 
as fortune seems to have favoured me in this, by bringing me into 
a family by whom you are well known and much esteemed, and 
where perhaps I may have an opportunity of seeing you ; I shall, in 
hopes of your friendship, take the liberty to transcribe them. 



Fair fa* the honest rustic swain, 
The pride o' a* our Scottish plain : 
Thou gi'es us joy to hear thy strain, 

And notes sae sweet : 
Old Ramsay's shade revived again 
In thee we greet. 

Loved Thalia, that delightfu' muse, 
Seem'd lang shut up as a recluse ; 
To all she did her aid refuse 

Since Allan's day : 
'Till Burns arose, then did she chuse 

To grace his lay. 

To hear thy sang all ranks desire, 
Sae weel you strike the dormant lyre; 
Apollo with poetic fire 

Thy breast does warm; 
And critics silently admire 

Thy art to charm. 

Cagsar and Luath weel can speak, 
'Tis pity e'er their gabs should steek, 
But into human nature keek, 

And knots unravel : 
To hear their lectures once a- week, 

Nine miles I'd travel. 

Thy dedication to G. H. 

An unco bonnie homespun speech, 

Wi' winsome glee the heart can teach 

A better lesson, 
Than servile bards, who fawn and neech 

Like beggar's messon. 

When slighted love becomes your theme, 
And women's faithless vows you blame; 
With so much pathos you exclaim, 

In your lament ; 
But glanced by the most frigid dame, 

She would relent. 



210 



The daisy too ye sing wi' skill ; 
And weel ye praise the whisky gill ; 
In vain I blunt my feckless quill, 

Your fame to raise ; 
While echo sounds from ilka hill 

To Burns's praise. 

Did Addison or Pope but hear, 

Or Sam, that critic most severe, 

A ploughboy sing with throat sae clear, 

They in a rage, 
Their works would a' in pieces tear, 

And curse your page. 

Sure Milton's eloquence were faint 
The beauties of your verse to paint, 
My rude unpolish'd strokes but taint 

Their brilliancy ; 
Th' attempt would doubtless vex a saint 

And weel may me. 

The task I'll drop with heart sincere, 
To heaven present my humble pray'r, 
That all the blessings mortals share, 

May be by turns, 
Dispensed by an indulgent care 

To Robert Burns. 



Sir, I hope you will pardon my boldness in this ; my hand 
trembles while I write to you, conscious of my unworthiness of 
what I would most earnestly solicit, viz. your favour and friendship; 
yet hoping you will show yourself possessed of as much generosity 
and good nature as will prevent your exposing what may justly be 
found liable to censure in this measure, I shall take the liberty to 
subscribe myself, 

Sir, 
Your most obedient humble servant, 

J — . 

P.S. — If you would condescend to honour me with a few lines 
from your hand I would take it as a particular favour, and direct 
to me at Loudon- House, near Galstock. 



No. LXXXIII. 
FROM MR. 



Mr dear sir, London, 5th August, 1789. 

Excuse me when I say, that the uncommon abilities which you pos- 
sess, must render your correspondence very acceptable to any one. 
I can assure you, I am particularly proud of your partiality, and 
shall endeavour, by every method in my power, to merit a continu- 
ance of your politeness. 

> 

When you can spare a few moments I should be proud of a letter 
from you, directed for me, Gerrard Street, Soho, 



LETTERS. 211 



I cannot express my happiness sufficiently at the instance of your 
attachment to my late inestimable friend, Bob Fergusson, who was 
particularly intimate with myself and relations.* While I recol- 
lect with pleasure his extraordinary talents, and many amiable qua- 
lities, it affords the greatest consolation, that I am honoured with 
the correspondence of hi3 successor in national simplicity and genius. 
That Mr. Burns has refined in the art of poetry, must readily be 
admitted ; but notwithstanding many favourable representations, 1 
am yet to learn that he inherits his convivial powers. 

There was such a richness of conversation, such a plenitude of 
fancy and attraction in him, that when I call the happy period of 
our intercourse to my memory, 1 feel myself in a state of delirium, 
I was then younger than him by eight or ten years ; but his manner 
was so felitious, that he enraptured every person around him, and 
infused into the young and the old, the spirit and animation which 
operated on his own mind. 

I am dear sir, yours, &c. 

No. LXXXIY. 
TO ME. , 

IN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

The hurry of a farmer in this particular season, and the indolence 
of a poet at all times and seasons, will, I hope, plead my excuse for 
neglecting so long to answer your obliging letter of the fifth of 
August. 
That you have done well in quitting your laborious concern in 
I do not doubt; the 'weighty reasons you men- 
tion were, I hope, very and deservedly indeed, weighty ones, and 
your health is a matter of the last importance ; but whether the re- 
maining proprietors of the paper have also done well, is what I 
much doubt. The ■ • •, so far as I was a reader, exhi- 
bited such a brilliancy of point, such a degree of elegance of para- 
graph, and such a variety of intelligence, that I can hardly con- 
ceive it possible to continue a daily paper in the same degree of 
excellence ; but if there was a man equal to the task, that man's 
assistance the proprietors have lost. 

When I received your letter I was transcribing, for • 
my letter to the Magistrates of the Canongate, Edinburgh, beg- 
ging their permission to place a tomb stone over poor Fergusson, 
and their edict in consequence of my petition ; but now I shall send 
them to • • • • Poor Fergusson ! If there be a life 
beyond the grave, which I trust there is : and if there be a good 
God presiding over all nature, which I am sure there is : thou art 
now enjoying existence in a glorious world, where worth of the heart 
alone is distinction in the man ; where riches, deprived of all their 
pleasure-seeking powers return to their sordid matter : where titles 
and honours are the disregarded reveries of an idle dream ; and 
where that heavy virtue, which is the negative consequence of 
steady dulness, and thoughtless, though often destructive follies, 
* The erection of a monument to him. 



212 BURNS' WORKS. 

which are the unavoidable aberrations of frail human nature, will 
be thrown into equal oblivion as if they had never been ! 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! so soon as your present views and schemes 
are concentrated in an aim, I shall be glad to hear from you, as 
your welfare and happiness is by no means a subject indifferent to 

Yours, &c. 



No. LXXXY. 
TO MRS. DUJSLOP. 

dear madam, Ellisland, 6th September, 1789. 

I have mentioned in my last, my appointment to the excise, and 
the birth of little Frank : who, by the bye, I trust will be no dis- 
credit to the honourable name of Wallace, as he ha3 a fine manly 
countenance, and a figure that might do credit to a little fellow 
two months older ; and likewise an excellent good temper, though 
when he pleases he has a pipe, only not quite so loud as the horn 
that his immortal namesake blew as a signal to take out the pin 
of Stirling bridge. 

I had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, and part prosaic, 

from your poetess, Mrs. J. L ; a very ingenious, but modest 

composition. I should have written her as she requested, but for 
the hurry of this new business. 1 have heard of her and her com- 
positions in this country : and I am happy to add, always to the 
honour of her character. The fact is, I know not well how to write 
to her ; I should sit down to a sheet of paper that I knew not how 
to stain. I am no daub at fine drawn letter- writing ; and except 
when prompted by friendship or gratitude, or which happens ex- 
tremely rarely, inspired by the Muse (I know not her name) that 
presides over epistolary writing, 1 sit down, when necessitated to 
write, as I would sit down to beat hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20th August struck me with 
melancholy concern for the state of your mind at present. 



Would I could write you a letter of comfort I would sit down to it 
with as much pleasure as I would to write an epic poem of my own 
composition, that should equal the Iliad. Eeligion, my dear friend, 
is the true comfort ! A strong persuasion in a future state of exis- 
tence ; a proposition so obviously probable, that, setting revelation 
aside, every nation and people, so far as investigation has reached, 
for at least near four thousand years, have in some mode or other, 
firmly believed it. In vain would we reason and pretend to doubt. 
I have myself done so to a very daring pitch ; but when I reflected, 
that I was opposing the most ardent wishes, and the most darling 
hopes of good men, and flying in the face of all human belief, in all 
ages, I was shocked at my own conduct. 

I know not whether 1 have ever sent you the following lines, or 
if you have ever seen them; but it is one of my favourite quota- 
tions, which I keep constantly by me in my progress through life 
in the language of the book of Job, 

' Against the day of tattle and of war.'— 
spoken of religion. 



LETTERS. 213 

' 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright, 
'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night, 
.When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few; 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 
'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 
Disarms affliction or repels his dart : 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 
Bids^smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies.' 

I have been very busy with Zeluco. The Doctor is so obliging as 
to request my opinion of it ; and 1 have been revolving in my 
mind some kind of criticisms on novel writing, but it is a depth 
beyond my research. I shall however digest my thoughts on the 
subject as well as I can. Zeluco is a most sterling performance. 

Farewell ! A Dun, le bon Dieu,je vous commende ! 



No. LXXXVL 
FBQM DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh, 2ith August, 1789. 

Dear Burns, thou brother of my heart, 
Both for thy virtues and thy art : 
If art it may be call'd in thee, 
Which nature's bounty, large and free, 
With pleasure on thy breast diffuses, 
And warms thy soul with all the Muses. 
Whether to laugh with easy grace. 
Thy numbers move the sage's face, 
Or bid the softer passions rise, 
And ruthless souls with grief surprise, 
'Tis Nature's voice distinctly felt, 
Through thee her organ, thus to melt. 

Most anxiously I wish to know, 
With thee of late how matters go ; 
How keeps thy much- loved Jean her health ! 
What promises thy farm of wealth ] 
Whether the Muse persists to smile, 
And all thy anxious cares beguile ] 
Whether bright fancy keeps alive ] 
And how thy darling infants thrive ] 

For me, with grief and sickness spent, 
Since I my journey homeward bent, 
Spirits depress' d no more I mourn, 
But vigour, life, and health return. 
No more to gloomy thoughts a prey, 
1 sleep all night, and live all day ; 
By turns my book and friend enjoy, 
And thus my circling hours employ ; 
Happy while yet these hours remain, 
If Burns could join the cheerful train, 
With wonted zeal, sincere and fervent, 
Salute once more his humble servant, 

THO. BLACKLOCK. 



2l4 BURNS 5 WORKS. 

No. LXXXYII. 
TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Ellisland, list October, 1789. 
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ] 
I ken'd it still your wee bit j auntie, 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'll do. 
The ill thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tauld mysel by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter ; 
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, 

And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron, 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tired o' sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body. 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a gauger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, 1 fear, I fear, 

Ye'll now disdain me, 
And then my fifty pounds a-year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha by Castalia's wimplin streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 
I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 
They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies : 
Ye ken yoursel my heart right proud is, 

I needna vaunt, 
But I'll sned besoms — thraw saugh woodies, 

Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers ! 

Come Firm Resolve take thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let m mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair : 
Wha does the utmost that he can, 

Will whyles do mair. 



LETTERS. 215 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 
To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky ; — 
I wat she is a dainty chuckie, 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully my gude auld cockie, 

I'm yours for aye. 

ROBERT BURNS. 



No. LXXXYIII. 
TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY. 

SIR, 9th December, 1789. 

I have a good while had a wish to trouble you with a letter, and 
had certainly done it long ere now— but for a humiliating some- 
thing that throws cold water on the resolution, as if one should say, 
" You have found Mr. Graham a very kind and powerful friend 
indeed, and that interest he is so kindly taking in your con- 
cerns, you ought by every thing in your power to keep alive and 
cherish." Now though, since God has thought proper to make one 
powerful and another helpless, the connexion of obliger and obliged 
is all fair ; and though my being under your patronage is to me 
highly honourable, yet, sir, allow me to flatter myself, that, as a 
poet and an honest man, you first interested yourself in my welfare, 
and principally as such still, you permit me to approach you. 

I have found the excise business go on a great deal smoother 
with me than I expected ; owing a good deal to the generous friend- 
ship of Mr. Mitchell, my collector, and the kind assistance of Mr. 
Findlater, my supervisor. I dare to be honest, and I fear no labour. 
Nor do I find my hurried life greatly inimical to my correspon- 
dence with the Muses. Their visits to me, indeed, and I believe 
to most of their acquaintance, like the visits of good angels, are 
short and far between ; but I meet them now and then as I jog 
through the hills of Nithsdale, just as I used to do on the banks of 
Ayr. I take the liberty to inclose you a few bagatelles, all of them 
the productions of my leisure thoughts in my excise rides. 

If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, the antiquarian, 
you will enter into any humour that is in the verses on him. Per- 
haps you have seen them before, as I sent them to a London news 
paper. Though I dare say you have none of the solemn-league- and- 
covenant fire, which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, 
and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you must have heard of 
Dr. M'Gill of one of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical book. 
God help, him poor man ! Though he is one of the worthiest, as 
well as one of the ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of 
Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the poor Doc- 
tor and his numerous family are in imminent danger of being 



216 burns' works. 

thrown out to the mercy of the winter- winds. The inclosed ballad 
on that business is, I confess, too local, but I laughed myself at some 
conceits in it, though I am convinced in my conscience, that there 
are a good many heavy stanzas in it too. 

The election ballad, as you will see, alludes to the present ean- 
vass in our string of boroughs. I do not believe there will be such 
a hard run match in the whole general election. 



I am too little a man to have any political attachments ; I am 
deeply indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for individuals 
of both parties ; but a man who has it in his power to be the fa- 
ther of a country, and who is a character that one cannot 

speak of with patience. 

Sir J. J. does "what man can do," but yet I doubt his fate. 



No. LXXXIX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EUisland, 13th of Decemler, 1789. 

Many thanks, dear madam, for your sheetful of rhymes. Though 
at present 1 am below the veriest prose, yet from you every thing 
pleases. 1 am groaning under the miseries of a diseased nervous 
system ; a system, the state of which is most conducive to our 
happiness— or the most productive of our misery. For now near 
three weeks I have been so ill with a nervous headache, that I 
have been obliged to give up, for a time, my excise books, being 
scarce able to lift my head, much less to ride once a- week over ten 
muir parishes. What is Man ! To-day, in the luxuriance of health, 
exulting in the enjoyment of existence ; in a few days, perhaps in 
a few hours, loaded with conscious painful being, counting the tardy 
pace of the lingering moments by the repercussions of anguish, 
and refusing or denied a comforter. Day follows night, and night 
comes after day, only to curse him with ife which gives him no 
pleasure ; and yet the awful, dark termination of that life, is a 
something at which he recoils. 

' Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 

Disclose the secret 

What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ! 

'tis no matter ; 

A little time will make us learn'd as you are.' 

Can it be possible, that when I resign this frail feverish being, I 
shall still find myself in conscious existence ! When the last gasp 
of agony has announced, that I am no more to those that knew me, 
and the few that loved me : when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, 
ghastly corse is resigned into the earth, to be the prey of unsightly 
reptiles, and to become in time a trodden clod, shall I yet be warm 
in life, seeing and seen, enjoying and enjoyed? Ye venerable sages, 
and holy flamens, is there probability in your conjectures, truth in 
your stories of another world beyond death : or are they all alike, 
baseless visions, and fabricated fables ? If there is another life, it 



LETTEBS. 217 

must be only for the just, the benevolent, the amiable, and the hu- 
mane; what a flattering idea, then, is the world to cornel Would 
to God I as firmly believed it, as I ardently wish it ! There I 
should meet an aged parent, now at rest from the many buffetings 
of an evil world, against which he so long and so bravely struggled. 
There should I meet the friend, the disinterested friend of my early 
life ; the man who rejoiced to see me, because he loved me and 

could serve me. Muir ! thy weaknesses were the aberrations of 

human nature, but thy heart glowed with every thing generous, 
manly, and noble ; and if ever emanation from the All-good Being 
animated a human form, it was thine ! — There should I with 
speechless agony of rapture, again recognize my lost, my ever dear 
Mary ! whose bosom was fraught with truth, honour, constancy and 
love. 

My Mary, dear departed shade! 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest ? 
- Seest shou thy lover lowly laid 1 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 

Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters, I trust thou art no 
impostor, and that thy revelation of blissful scenes of existence be- 
yond death and the grave, is not one of the many impositions which 
time alter time have been palmed on credulous mankind. I trust 
that in thee, "shall all the families of the earth be blessed," by 
being yet connected together in a better world, where every tie 
that bound heart to heart, in this state of existence, shall be, far 
beyond our present conception, more endearing. 

I am a good deal inclined to think with those who maintain, that 
what are called nervous affections are in fact diseases of the mind. 
I cannot reason, I cannot think ; and but to you I would not ven- 
ture to write any thing above an order to a cobbler. You have felt 
too much of the ills of life not to sympathize with a diseased 
wretch, who is impaired more than half of any faculties he posses- 
sed. Your goodness will excuse this distracted scrawl, which the 
writer dare scarcely read, and which he would throw into the fire, 
were he able to write any thing better, or indeed any thing at all. 

Rumour told me something of a son of yours who was returned 
from the East or West Indies. If you have gotten news of James 
and Anthony, it was cruel in you not to let me know ; as I promise 
you, on the sincerity of a man, who is weary of one world and 
anxious about another, that scarce any thing could give me so much 
pleasure as to hear of any good befalling my honoured friend. 

If you have a minute's leisure, take up your pen in pity to le 
pauvre miserable 

R. B. . 



No. XC. 
TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 

SIR, 

The following circumstance has, I believe, been omitted in the sta- 
tistical account, transmitted to you, of the parish of Dunscore, in 
Nithdale. I beg leave to send it to you, because it is new and may 



21 S BURNS 9 WORKS. 

be useful. How far it may be deserving of a place in your patriotic 
publication, you are the best judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes with useful knowledge, 
is certainly of very great importance, both to them as individuals, 
and to society at large. Giving them a turn for reading and reflec- 
tion, is giving them a source of innocent and laudable amusement ; 
and besides raises them to a more dignified degree in the scale of 
rationality. Impressed with this idea, a gentleman in this parish, 
Robert Eiddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, set on foot a species of circulat- 
ing library, on a plan so simple a3 to be practicable in any corner 
of the country; and so useful, as to deserve the notice of every 
country gentleman, who thinks the improvement of that part of 
his own species, whom chance has thrown into the humble walks 
of the peasant and the artisan, a matter worthy of his attention. 

Mr. Riddel got a number of his tenants, and farming neighbours, 
to form themselves into a society for the purpose of having a library 
among themselves. They entered into a legal engagement to abide 
by it for three years ; with a saving clause or two, in case of remo- 
val to a distance or death. Each member, at his entry, paid five 
shillings, and at each of their meetings, which where held every 
fourth Saturday, sixpence more. With their entry-money, and the 
credit they took on the faith of their future funds, they laid in a 
tolerable stock of books at the commencement. What authors they 
were to purchase, was always decided by the majority. At every 
meeting, all the books, under certain fines and forfeitures, by way 
of penalty, were to be produced ; and the members had their choice 
of their volumes in rotation. He whose name stood, for that night, 
first on the list, had his choice of what volume he pleased in the 
whole collection ; the second had his choice after the first ; the 
third after the second, and so on to the last. At next meeting, he 
who had been first on the list at the preceding meeting, was last at 
this ; he who had been second was first ; and so on through the 
whole three years. At the expiration of the engagement, the books 
were sold by auction, but only among the members themselves : 
and each man had his share of the common stock, in money or in 
books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little society, which was formed un- 
der Mr. Riddel's patronage, what with benefactions of books from 
him, and what with their own purchases, they had collected toge- 
ther upwards of one hundred and fifty volumes. It will easily be 
guessed, that a good deal of trash would be bought. Among the 
books, however, of this little library, were Blair' 's Sermons, Rohert- 
son's History of Scotland* Hume's History of the Stuarts, the Specta- 
tor, Idler, Adventurer, Mirror, Lounger, Observer, Man of Feeling, 
Man of the World, Chrysal, Don Quixote, Joseph Andrews, &c, A 
peasant who can read, and enjoy such books, is certainly a much 
superior being to his neighbour, who perhaps stalks beside his team, 
very little removed, except in shape, from the brute he drives. 

Wishing your patriotic exertions their so much merited success, 
I am 

Sir, 

Your humble servant, 

A PEASANT, 



LETTERS* 219 

No. XCI. 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 
dear brother, JEllisland, 11th January, 1790. 

I mean to take advantage of the frank, though I have not in my 
present frame of mind much appetite for exertion in writing. My 
nerves are in a . . . . state. I feel that horrid hypochondria 
pervad ing every atom of both body and soul. This farm has un« 
done my enjoyment of myself. It is a ruinous affair on all hands. 
But let it go to . . . ! I'll fight it out and be off with it. 

We have gotten a set of very decent players here just now. I 
have seen them an evening or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote 
to me by the manager of the company, a Mr. Sutherland, who is a 
man of apparent worth. On New-year's- day evening I gave him 
the following prologue, which he spouted to his audience with 
applause. 

No song nor dance I bring from your great city, 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's to pity : 
Though, by the bye, abroad why will you roam ? 
Good sense and taste are natives, here at home ; 
But not for panegyric I appear, 
I come to wish you all a good new year ! 
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say, 
" You're one year older this important day," 
If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion, 
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question ; 
And with a would — be roguish leer and wink, 
He bade me on you press this one word — " think !" 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ! 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That though some by the skirt may try to snatch him, 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him, 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, though not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important — now ! 
To crown your happiness, he asks your leave, 
And offers, bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, though haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own you many favours, 
And howsoe'er our tongue may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 

I can no more,— If once I was clear of this * * * farm, I should 
respire more at ease. 



220 burns' works. 

No. XCII. 

TO MES. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland 25th January, 1790. 
It h?s been owing to unremitting hurry of business that I hare 
not written to you, madam, long ere now. My health is greatly 
better, and I now begin once more to share in satisfaction and en- 
joyment with the rest of my fellow- creatures. 

Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, for your kind letters ; 
but why will you make me run the risk of being contemptible and 
mercenary in my own eyes ! When 1 pique myself on my inde- 
pendent spirit, 1 hope it is neither poetic licence, nor poetic rant ; 
and I am so flattered with the honour you have done me, in making 
me your compeer in friendship and friendly correspondence, that I 
cannot without pain, and a degree of mortification, be reminded of 
the real inequality between our situations. 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear madam, in the good 
news of Anthony. Not only your anxiety about his fate, but my 
own esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, manly young fellow, in 
the little I had of his acquaintance, has interested me deeply in his 
fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the Shipwreck, which you so 
much admire, is no more. After weathering the dreadful catas- 
trophe he so feelingly describes in his poem, and after weathering 
many hard gales of fortune, he went to the bottom with the Aurora 
frigate ! I forget what part of Scotland had the honour of giving 
him birth, but he was the son of obscurity and misfortune. He 
was one of those daring adventurous spirits, which Scotland beyond 
any other country is remarkable for producing. Little does the 
fond mother think, as she hangs delighted over the sweet little 
leech at her bosom, where the poor fellow may hereafter wander, 
and what may be his fate. I remember a stanza in an old Scottish 
ballad, which, notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks feel- 
ingly to the heart : — 

" Little did my mother think, 

That day She cradled me, 
What land I was to travel in, 
Or what death I should die." 

Old Scottish songs are, you know, a favourite study and pursuit 
of mine ; and now I am on that subject, allow me to give you two 
stanza of another old simple ballad, which I am sure will please 
you. The catastrophe of the piece is a poor ruined female, lament- 
ing her fate. She concludes with this pathetic wish : 

11 O that ray father had ne'er on me smiled ; 

O that my mother had ne'er to me sung ! 
O that my cradle had never been rock'd ; 

But that I had died when I was young ! 

O that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my winding sheet ; 
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a'; 

And O sae sound as I should sleep !" 

I do not remember in all my reading to have met with any thing 
more truly the language of misery, than the exclamation in the 



LETTERS. 221 

last line. Misery is like love; to speak its language truly, the 
author must have felt it. 

/ I am every day expecting the doctor to give your little god-son 
the small-pox. They are rife in the country, and I tremble for his 
fate. By the way, I cannot help congratulating you on his looks 
and spirit. Every person who sees him, acknowledges him to be 
the finest, handsomest child he has ever seen. I am myself de- 
lighted with the manly swell of his little chest, and a certain 
miniature dignity in the carriage of his head, and glance of his 
line black eye, which promise the undaunted gallantry of an 
independent mind. 

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but time forbids. I 
promise you poetry until you are tired of it, next time I have the 
honour of assuring you how truly I am, &c. 



No. XC1II. 

FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

28th January, 1790. 
In some instances it is reckoned unpardonable to quote any one's 
own words ; but the value I have for your friendship, nothing can 
more truly or more elegantly express, than 

" Time but the impression stronger makes, 
As streams their channels deeper wear." 

Having written to you twice without having heard from you, I 
am apt to think my letters have miscarried. My conjecture is 
only framed upon the chapter of accidents turning up against me, 
as it too often does, in the trivial, and I may with truth add, the 
more important affairs of life ; but I shall continue occasionally to 
inform you what is going on among the circle of your friends in 
these parts. In these days of merriment, I have frequently heard 
your name proclaimed at the jovial board— under the roof of our 
hospitable friend at Stenhouse Mills, there were no 
"Lingering moments number'd with care." 

I saw your Address to the New Year in the Dumfries Journal. Of 
your productions I shall say nothing, but my acquaintances allege 
that when your name is mentioned, which every man of celebrity 
must know often happens, I am the champion, the Mendoza, against 
all snarling critics, and narrow-minded reptiles, of whom &few on 
this planet do craw\. 

With best compliments to your wife, and her black-eyed sister, I 
remain, yours, &c. 



No. XCIV. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Elhsland, IZth February, l79Ct 
I beg your pardon, my dear and much valued friend, for writing to 
you on this very unfashionable, unsightly sheet — 
• My poverty but not my will consents-' 

But to make amends, since of modish post I have none, except 



222 burns' works. 

one poor widowed half sheet of gilt, which lies in my drawer among 
my plebian foolscap pages, like the widow of a man of fashion, whom 
that unpolite scoundrel, Necessity, ha3 driven from Burgundy and 
Pine-apple, to a dish of Bohea, with the scandal-bearing helpmate 
of a village priest ; or a glass of whiskey -toddy, with the ruby- 
nosed yoke-fellow of a foot-padding exciseman — I make a vow to 
enclose this sheet full of epistolary fragments in that my only scrap 
of gilt-paper. 

I am indeed your unworthy debtor for three friendly letters. I 
ought to have written to you long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I 
have scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I will not write to 
you : Miss Burnet is not more dear to her guardian angel, nor his 

grace the Duke of to the powers of , than my friend 

Cunningham to me. It is not that. I cannot write to you; should 
you doubt it, take the following fragment, which was intended for 
you some time ago, and be convinced that I can antithesize senti- 
ment, and circumvolute periods, as well as any coiner of phrase in 
the regions of philology. 



MY dear Cunningham, December, 1789. 

Where are you ] And what are you doing 1 Can you be that son 
of levity, who takes up a friendship as he takes up a fashion ] or 
are you, like some other of the worthiest fellows in the world, the 
victim of indolence, laden with fetters of ever-increasing weight. 

What strange beings we are ! Since we have a portion of con- 
scious existence, equally capable of enjoying pleasure, happiness, 
and rapture, or of suffering pain, wretchedness, and misery, it is 
surely worthy of an inquiry, whether there be not such a thing as 
a science of life ; whether method, economy, and fertility of expedi- 
ents be not applicable to enjoyment; and whether there be not a 
want of dexterity in pleasure, which renders our little scantling of 
happiness still less ; and a profuseness, an intoxication in bliss which 
leads to satiety, disgust, and self- abhorrence. There is not a doubt 
but that health, talents, character, decent competency, respectable 
friends, are real substantial blessings ; and yet do we not daily see 
those who enjoy many or all of these good things, contrive, not- 
withstanding, to be as unhappy as others to whose lot few of them 
have fallen. I believe one great source of this mistake or miscon- 
duct is owing to a certain stimulus, with us called ambition, which 
goads us up the hill of life, not as we ascend other eminences, for 
the laudable curiosity of viewing an extended landscape, but rather 
for the dishonest pride of looking down on others of our fellow- 
creatures, seemingly diminutive, in humble stations, &c. &c. 
# * * * 

Sunday, lith February, 1790. 
God help me ! I am now obliged to join 

* Night to day, and Sunday to the week.' 

If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of these churches, I am 

past redemption, and what is worse, to all eternity. 

I am deeply read in Boston's Fourfold State, Marshall on Sanctifica- 
tion, Guthrie's Trial of a Saving Interest, <kc. but "There is no 
balm in Gilead, there is no physician there," for me ; so I shall e'en 



LETTERS. 223 

turn Arminian, and trust to " Sincere, though imperfect obedi- 
ence." 

* * * * 

Tuesday j 16th. 
LucKiLr for me I was prevented from the discussion of the knotty 
point at which I had just made a full stop. All my fears and cares 
are of this world : if there is another, an honest man has nothing to 
fear from it. I hate a man that wishes to be a Deist, but I fear, 
every fair, unprejudiced inquirer must in some degree be a sceptic. 
It is not that there are any very staggering arguments against the 
immortality of man ; but like electricity, phlogiston, &c. the sub- 
ject is so involved in darkness, that we want data to go upon. One 
thing frightens me much ; that we are to live for ever, seems too 
good news to he true. That we are to enter into a new scene of ex- 
istence, where, exempt from want and pain, we shall enjoy our- 
selves and our friends without satiety or separation — how much 
should I be indebted to any one who could fully assure me that 

this was certain ! 

* * * * 

My time is once more expired. I will write to Mr. Cleghorn 
soon. God bless him and all his concerns ! And may all the 
powers that preside over conviviality and friendship, be present 
with all their kindest influence, when the bearer of this, Mr. Syme, 
and you meet ! I wish I could also make one. — I think we should 
be 

Finally, brethren, farewell ! AVhatsoever things are lovely, 
whatsoever things are gentle, whatsoever things are charitable, 
whatsoever things are kind, think on these things, and think on 

BOBERT BURNS. 

No. XCY. 

TO ME. HILL. 

Ellisland, 2d March, 1790. 
At a late meeting of the Monkland Friendly Society, it was resolved 
to augment their library by the following books, which you are to 
send us as soon as possible : — The Mirror, The Lounger, Man of 
Feeling, Man of the World, (these for my own sake I wish to have 
by the first carrier) Knox's History of the Reformation ; Rae's His- 
tory of the Rebellion in 1715 ; any good History of the Rebellion in 
1745 / A Display of the Session Act and. Testimony, by Mr. Gibb ; 
Hervey's Meditations; Beveridge's Thoughts; and another copy of 
Watson's Body of Divinity. 

I wrote to Mr. A. Masterton three or four months ago, to pay 
some money he owed me into your hands, and lately 1 wrote to you 
to the same purpose, but I have heard from neither one nor other 
of you. 

In addition to the books I commissioned in my last, I want very 
much, An Index to the Excise Laws, or an abridgement of all the 
Statutes now in force, relative to the Excise, by Jellinger Symons : I 
want three copies of this book ; if it is now to be had, cheap or 
dear, get it for me. An honest country neighbour of mine wants, 
too, A Family Bible, the larger the better, but second-handed, for 



224 BURNS' WORKS. 

he does not choose to give above ten shillings for the book. I want 

likewise for myself, as you can pick them up, second-handed or 

cheap, copies of Ottway's Dramatic Works, Ben Johnson's, Dryden*s, 

Congreve's, Wycherleys, VanbrugJis Cibber's, or any Dramatic Works 

of the more modern — Macklin, Garrick, Foote, Colman, or Sheridan* 

A good copy too of Moliere, in French, I much want. Any other 

good dramatic authors in that language I want also ; but comic 

authors, chiefly, though T should wish to have Racine, Comeille, 

and Voltaire too. I am in no hurry for all, or any of these, but if 

you accidentally meet with them very cheap, get them for me. 

And now, to quit the dry walk of business, how do you do, my 

dear friend 1 and how is Mrs. Hill 1 I trust if now and then not so 

elegantly handsome, at least as amiable, and sings as divinely as ever. 

My good- wife too has a charming "wood- note wild;" now could we 

four 

* * * * 

I am out of all patience with this vile world, for one thing. Man- 
kind are by nature benevolent creatures ; except in a few scoun- 
drelly instances, I do not think that avarice of the good things we 
chance to have, is born with us ; but we are placed here amid so 
much nakedness, and hunger, and poverty, and want, that we are 
under a cursed necessity of studying selfishness, in order that we 
may exist ! Still there are, in every age, a few souls, that all the 
wants and woes of life cannot debase to selfishness, or even to the 
necessary alloy of caution and prudence. If ever I am in danger of 
vanity, it is when I contemplate myself on this side of my disposi- 
tion and character. God knows I am no saint ; I have a whole host 
of follies and sins to answer for ; but if I could, and I believe I do 
it as far as I can, I would wipe away all tears from all eyes. Adieu ! 

No. XCYI. 
TO MRS. DOTLOP. 

Ellisland, 10th April, 1799. 

I have just now, my ever-honoured friend, enjoyed a very high 
luxury, in reading a paper of the Lounger. Tou know my national 
prejudices. I had often read and admired the Spectator, Adven- 
turer -, Rambler, and World ; but still with a certain regret, that 
they were so thoroughly and entirely English. Alas ! have I often 
Baid to myself, what are all the boasted advantages which my coun- 
try reaps from the Union, that can counterbalance the annihilation 
of her independence, and even her very name ! I often repeat that 
couplet of my favourite poet, Goldsmith — 



States of native liberty possest, 



Though very poor, may yet be very blest.' 

Nothing can reconcile me to the common terms, " English am- 
bassador, English court," &c. And I am out of all patience to see 
that equivocal character, Hastings, impeached by " the Commons 
of England." Tell me, my friend, is this weak prejudice? I 
believe in my conscienoe such ideas, as my " country ; her inde- 
pence^her honour; the illustrious names that mark the history of 
my native land," &c. — I believe these, among your men of the world — 



LETTERS. 225 

men who in fact guide for the most part and govern our world, are 
looked on as so many modifications of wrongheadedness. They 
know the use of bawling out such terms, to rouse or lead the rab- 
ble ; but for their own private use, with almost all the able states* 
men that ever existed, or now exist, when they talk of right or 
wrong, they only mean proper and improper; and their measure of 
conduct is, not what they ought, but what they dake. For the 
truth of this I shall not ransack the history of nations, but appeal 
to one of the ablest judges of men, and himself one of the ablest 
men that ever lived — the celebrated Earl of Chesterfield. In fact, 
a man who could thoroughly control his vices whenever they inter- 
fered with his interest, and who could completely put on the ap- 
pearance of every virtue as often as it suited his purpose, is on the 
Stanhopian plan, the perfect man ; a man to lead nations. But are 
great abilities, complete without a Haw, and polished without a 
blemish, the standard of human excellence ] This is certainly the 
staunch opinion of man of the world : but I call on honour, virtue, 
and worth, to give the Stygian doctrine a loud negative ! How- 
ever, this must be allowed, that if you abstract from man the idea 
of an existence beyond the grave, then, the true measure of human 
conduct is proper and improper : Yirtue and vice, as dispositions 
of the heart, are in that case, of scarcely the import and value to the 
world at large, as harmony and discord in the modifications of sound; 
and a delicate sense of honour, like a nice ear for music, though it 
may sometimes give the possessor an ecstacy unknown to the coarser 
organs of the herd, yet considering the harsh gratings, and inhar- 
momic jars, in this ill-tuned state of being, it is odds but the in- 
dividual would be as happy, and certainly would be as much re- 
spected by the true judges of society, as it would then stand, without 
either a good ear or a good heart. 

You must know I have just met with the Mirror and Lounger 
for the first time, and I am quite in raptures with them : 1 should 
be glad to have your opinion of some of the papers. The one I 
have just read, Lounger, No. 61, has cost me more honest tears than 
anything I have read of a long time. Mr. M'Kenzie has been called 
the Addison of the Scots, and in ray opinion, Addison would not 
be hurt at the comparison. If he has not Addison's exquisite hu- 
mour, he certainly outdoes him in the tender and pathetic. His 
Man of Feeling (but I am not counsel learned in the laws of criti- 
cism,) I estimate as the first performance in its kind I ever saw. 
From what books, moral or even pious, will the susceptible young 
mind receive impressions more congenial to humanity and kindness, 
generosity and benevolence ; in short, more of all that enobles the soul 
to herself, or endears her to others — than from the simple affect- 
ing tale of poor Harley. 

Still, with all my admiration of M'Kenzie's writings, I do not 
know if they are the fittest reading for a young man who is 
about to set out, as the phrase is, to make his way into life. Do 
not you think, madam, that among the few favoured of Heaven 
in the structure of their minds (for such there certainly are), 
there may be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance of 
I .-ill, which are of no use, nay in some degree, absolutely disqualifying 
k 5 



226 BURNS* WORK!?. 

for the truly important business of making a man's way into life. 

If I am not much mistaken, my gallant young friend, A , is 

very much under these disqualifications ; and for the young females 
of a family I could mention, well may they excite parental solici- 
tude, for I, a common acquaintance, or as my vanity will have it, 
an humble friend, have often trembled for a turn of mind which 
may render them eminently happy — or peculiarly miserable ! 

I have been manufacturing some verses lately ; but as I have got 
the most hurried season of excise business over, I hope to have 
more leisure to transcribe any thing that may show how much I 
have the honour to be, madam, yours, &c. 



No. XCVII. 
FROM ME. CUNNINGHAM. 

MY DEAR burns, Edinburgh, 25th, May 1790. 

I am much indebted to you for your last friendly, elegant epistle, 
and it shall make a part of the vanity of my composition, to retain 
your correspondence through life. It was remarkable your intro- 
ducing the name of Miss Burnet, at a time when she was in such ill 
health ; and I am sure it will grieve your gentle heart, to hear of 
her being in the last stage of a consumption. Alas ! that so much 
beauty, innocence, and virtue, should be nipt in the bud. Hers 
was the smile of cheerfulness — of sensibility, not of allurement ; and 
her elegance of manners corresponded with the purity and eleva- 
tion of her mind. 

How does your friendly muse 1 I am sure she still retains her 
affection for you, and that you have many of her favours in your 
possession, which I have not seen. I weary much to hear from 
you. 

I beseech you do not forget me. 

I most sincerely hope all your concerns in life prosper, and that 
your roof-tree enjoys the blessing of good health. All your friends 
here are well, among whom, and not the least, is your acquaintance, 

Cleghorn. As for myself, I am well, as far as 

will let a man be ; but with these I am happy. 

"When you meet with my very agreeable friend J. Syme, give him 
for me a hearty squeeze, and bid, God bless him. 
Is there any probability of your being soon in Edinburgh ? 



No. XCYIII. 

TO DR. MOOEE. 

sir, Dumfries, Excise- Office, 14th July, 1790. 

Coming into town this morning, to attend my duty in this office, it 
being collection- day, I met with a gentleman who tells me he is on 
his way to London ; so I take the opportunity of writing to you, as 
franking is at present under a temporary death. I shall have some 
snatches of leisure through the day, ami<J our horrid business mi 






LETTERS. 227 

bustle, and I shall improve them as well as I can; but let my letter 

be as stupid as , as miscellaneous as a news-paper, as 

a hungry grace-before-meat, or as long as a law- paper in the Doug- 
las' cause ; as ill-spelt as country John's billet-doux, or as unsightly 
a scrawl as Betty Byremucker's answer to it ; I hope, considering 
circumstances, you will forgive it ; and as it will put you to no ex- 
pense of postage, I shall have the less reflection about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you my thanks for your 
most valuable present, Zehico. In fact, you are in some degree 
blamable for my neglect. You were pleased to express a wish for 
my opinion of the work, which so flattered me, that nothing less 
would serve my over- weening fancy, than a formal criticism on the 
book. In fact, I have gravely planned a comparative view of you, 
Fielding, Eichardson, and Smollet, in your different qualities and 
merits as novel-writers. This I own, betrays my ridiculous vanity, 
and I may probable never bring the business to bear ; but I am 
fond of the spirit young Elihu shows in the book of Job — •' And 
I said, I will also declare my opinion." I have quite disfigured my 
copy of the book with my annotations. I never take it up without 
at the same time taking my pencil, and marking with asterisks, 
parenthesis, &c. wherever I meet with an original thought, a ner- 
vous remark on life and manners, a remarkable well turned period, 
or a character sketched with uncommon precision. 

Though I hardly think of fairly writing out my " Comparative 
Yiew," I shall certainly trouble you with my remarks, such as they 
are. I have just received from my gentleman, that horrid summons 
in the book of Kevelations — " That time shall be no more !" 

The little collection of sonnets have some charming poetry in 
them. If indeed I am indebted to the fair author for the book, and 
not, as I rather suspect, to a celebrated author of the other sex, I 
should certainly have written to the lady, with my grateful ac- 
knowledgments, and my own ideas of the comparative excellence of 
her pieces. I would do this last, not from any vanity of thinking 
that my remarks could be of much consequence to Mrs. Smith, but 
merely from my own feelings as an author, doing as 1 would be 
done by. 



ISTo. XCIX. 

TO MKS. DUNLOP. 

DEAR MADAM, $th of August, 1790. 

After a long day's toil, plague, and care, I sit down to write to you. 
Ask me not why I have delayed it so long 1 It was owing to hurry, 
indolence, and fifty other things ; in short, to any thing — but for- 
getfulness of la plus amiable de son sexe. By the bye, you are in- 
debted your best courtesy to me for this last compliment; as I pay 
it from sincere conviction of its truth— a quality rather rare in 
compliments of these grinning, bowing, scraping times. 

Well, I hope writing to you, will ease a little my troubled soul. 
Sorely has it been bruised to-day ! A ci-devant friend of mine, and 
an intimate acquaintance of yours, has given my feelings a wound 
that I perceive will gangrene dangerously ere It cure, He km 
\wmde d my pride i 

fffffffffifffff 



228 BURNS' WORKS. 

ffo. C. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, 8th August, 1790. 
Forgive me at once dear, and ever dear friend, my seeming negli- 
gence. You cannot sit down, and fancy the busy life I lead. 

I laid down my goose feather to beat my brains for an apt simile, 
and had some thoughts of a country grannam at a family christen- 
ing : a bride on the market-day before her marriage ; 



a tavern-keeper at an election dinner ; &c. &c. — but the resemblance 
that hits my fancy best is, that blackguard miscreant, Satan, who 
roams about like a roaring lion, seeking, searching whom he may de- 
vour. However, tossed about as I am, if I choose (and who would not 
choose) to bind down with the crampets of attention, the brazen 
foundation of integrity, I may rear up the superstructure of Inde- 
pendence, and from its daring turrets, bid defiance to the storm of 
fate. And is not this a " consummation devoutly to be wished I* 

" Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ; 

Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle- eye ! 
Thy steps I follow with ray bosom bare, 

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky »" 

Are not these noble verses ] They are the introduction of Smol- 
let's Ode to Independence. If you have not seen the poem, I will 
send it to you. How wretched is the man that hangs on by the fa- 
vours of the great. To shrink from every dignity of man, at the 
approach of a lordly piece of self- consequence, \jho, amid all his tin- 
sel glitter, and stately hauteur, is but a creature formed as thou 
art — and perhaps not so well formed as thou art — came into the 
world a puling infant as thou didst, and must go out of it as all 
men must a naked corse.* 






No. CI. 

FROM DR. BLACLOCK. 

Edinburgh, 1st September, 1790. 
How does my dear friend 1 — much I languish to hear, 
His fortune, relations, and all that are dear ; 
With love of the Muses so strongly still smitten, 
I meant this epistle in verse to have written ; 
But from age and infirmity, indolence Hows, 
And this, much I fear, will restore me to prose. 
Anon to my business I wish to proceed, 
Dr. Anderson guides and provokes me to speed, 
A man of integrity, genius and worth, 
Who soon a performance intends to set forth ; 
A work miscellanous, extensive, and free, 
Which will weekly appear, by the name of the Bee 
Of this from himself I inclose you a plan, 
And hope you will give what assistance you can, 

*The preceding letter explains the feelings under which this was written. The 
Strain of indignant invective goes on some time longer in the style which our barq 
(fag too ant to indulge, and of which the reader has already seen so m 



LETTERS. 229 

Entangle with business, and haunted with care, 
In which more or less human nature must share, 
Some moments of leisure the Muses will claim, 
A sacrifice due to amusement and fame. 
The Bee, which sucks honey from ev'ry gay bloom. 
With some rays of your genius her work may illume, 
Whilst the flower whence her honey spontaneously flows, 
As fragrantly smells, and as vig'rously grows. 

Now with kind gratulation 'tis time to conclude, 
And add, your promotion is here understood ; 
Thus free from the servile employ of excise, sir, 
We hope soon to hear you commence supervisor ; 
You then more at leisure, and free from control, 
May indulge the strong passion that reigns in your soul. 
But I, feeble, I must to nature give way ; 
Devoted cold death's and longevity's prey. 
From verses tho' languid my thoughts must unbend, 
Tho' still I remain your affectionate friend, 

THO. BLACKLOCK. 



No CII. 

EXTRACT OP A LETTER 

FJSOM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh, 13th October, 1790. 

I lately received a letter from our friend B , — what a 

charming fellow lost to society — born to great expectations — with 
superior abilities, a pure heart, and untainted morals, his fate in 
life has been hard indeed — still I am persuaded he is happy ; not 
like the gallant, the gay Lothario, but in the simplicity of rural 
enjoyment, unmixed with regret at the remembrance of " the days 
of other years." 

I saw Mr. Dunbar put, under cover of your newspaper, Mr. Wood's 
Poem on Thomson. This Poem has suggested an idea to me which 
you alone are capable to execute : — a song adapted to each season of 
the year. The task is difficult, but the theme is charming ; should 
you succeed, I will undertake to get new music worthy of the sub- 
ject. What a line field for your imagination, and who is there alive 
can draw so many beauties from Nature and pastoral imagery as 
yourself? It is, by the way, surprising that there does not exist, 
so far as I know, a proper song for each season. We have songs on 
hunting, fishing, skaiting, and one autumnal song, Harvest Home. — 
As your muse is neither spavied nor rusty, you may mount the hill 
of Parnassus, and return with a sonnet in your pocket for every 
season. For my suggestions, if I be rude, correct me ; if imperti- 
nent, chastise me ; if presuming, despise me. But if you blend all 
my weaknesses, and pound out one grain of insincerity, then am I 
not thy 

Faithful friend, &c, 









230 



burns' works. 



No. cm. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



to a 



November, 1790. 
thirsty soul, so is good news from a far 



"As cold waters 
country." 

Fate has long owed me a letter of good news from you, in return 
for the many tidings of sorrow which I have received. In this in- 
stance, I most cordially obey the apostle — "Rejoice with them that 
do rejoice" — for me to sing for joy is no new thing ; but to preach 
for joy, as I have done in the commencement of this epistle, is a 
pitch of extravagant rapture to which I never rose before. 

I read your letter — I literally jumped for joy. — How could such 
a mercurial creature as a poet, lumpishly keep his seat on the re- 
ceipt of the best news from his best friend. I seized my gilt-headed 
Wangee rod, an instrument indispensably necessary, in my left 
hand, in the moment of inspiration and rapture ; and stride, stride 
— quicker and quicker — out skipt I among the broomy banks of 
Nith, to muse over my joy by retail. To keep within the bounds of 
prose was impossible. Mrs. Little's is a more elegant, but not a 
more sincere compliment to the sweet little fellow, than I, extem- 
pore almost, poured forth to him in the following verses. See the 
poem — On the Birth of a Posthumous Child. 

I am much pleased with your approbation of my Tarn o' Shanter, 
which you express in your former letter, though, by the bye, you 
load me in that said letter with accusations heavy and many ; to all 
of which I plead not guilty ! Your book is, I hear, on the road to 
reach me. As to printing of poetry, when you prepare it for the 
press, you have only to spell it right, and place the capital letters 
properly ; as to the punctuation, the printers will do that them* 
selves. 

I have a copy of Tarn o' Shanter ready to send by the first oppor- 
tunity, it is too heavy to send by post. 

I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in consequence of your recom- 
mendation, is most zealous to serve me. Please favour me soon with 
an account of your good folks ; if Mrs. H. is recovering, and the 
young gentleman doing well. 






No. CIY. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, 2Zd January, 1791. 

Many happy returns of the season to you, my dear friend ! As 
many of the good things of this life, as is consistent with the 
usual mixture of good and evil in the cup of Being ! 

I have just finished a poem, which you will receive inclosed. It 
is my first essay in the way of tales. 

I have, these several months, been hammering at an elegy for the 
amiable and accomplished Miss Burnet, I have got, and can get, 
no farther than the following fragment, on which please to give me 
mr strictures, in all Hgdi of poetic composition, I mt great value 






LETTERS. 231 

on your opinion ; but in sentimental verses, in the poetry of the 
heart, no Roman Catholic ever set more value on the infallibility of 
the Holy Father than I do on yours. 
I mean the introductory couplets as text verses. 



ELEGY 

ON THE LATE MISS BURNET OF MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, 

As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 

Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 

As that which laid th ? accomplish'd Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ; 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 

In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves; 

Thou crystal streamlet, with thy flowery shore ; 
Ye woodland choir that chaunt your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm ; Eliza is no more. 

Ye heathy wastes, inmix'd with reedy fens, 
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd* 

Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, 
To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth, 
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ; 

And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth, 
And not a muse in honest grief bewail. 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres; 

But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 



Let me hear from you soon. Adieu ! 

No. CY. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

17 th January, 1791. 
Take these two guineas, and place them over against that 



account of yours, which has gagged my mouth these five or six 
months ! I can as little write good things as apologies to the 
man I owe money to. O the supreme curse of making three gui- 
neas do the business of five ! Not all the labours of Hercules ; not 
all the Hebrews' three centuries of Egyptian bondage, were such an 
insuperable business, such an task ! Poverty ! thou half- 
sister of death, thou cousin-german of hell ! where shall I find 
force of execration equal to the amplitude of thy demerits ] Op- 
pressed by thee, the venerable ancient, grown hoary in the practice 
of every virtue, laden with years and wretchedness, implores a little 
—little aid to support his existence, from a stony-hearted son of 
Mammon, whose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud ; and is by 
fiim betrayed and insulted. Oppressed by thee, the man of senti. 

meat, whose h<mrfc glows with Mepenjeaqej mi igelte witti mmi* 






232 burns' works. 

bility, inly pines under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul, 
tinder the contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by 
by thee, the son of genius, whose ill starred ambition plants him at 
the tables of the fashionable and polite, must see in suffering silence 
his remark neglected, and his person despised, while shallow great- 
ness, in his idiot attempts at wit, shall meet with countenance and 
applause. Nor is it only the family of worth that have reason to 
complain of thee : the children of folly and vice, though in com- 
mon with thee, the offspring of evil, smart equally under thy rod. 
Owing to thee, the man of unfortunate disposition, and neglected 
education, is condemned as a fool for his dissipation, despised and 
shunned as a needy wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to 
want, and when his unprincipled necessities drive him to dishonest 
practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the justice 
of his country. But far otherwise is the lot of the man of family 
and fortune. His early follies and extravagance, are spirit and fire ; 
his consequent wants are the embarrassments of an honest fellow ; 
and when, to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal commission 
to plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he re- 
turns, perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine and murder ; lives 

wicked and respected, and dies a — and a lord. — Nay, worst of 

all, alas for helpless woman ! the needy prostitute, who has shivered 
at the corner of the street, waiting to earn the wages of carnal 
prostitution, is left neglected and insulted, ridden down by the 
chariot wheels of the coronetted rip, hurrying on to the guilty as- 
signation : she, too, without the same necessities to plead, riots 
nightly in the same guilty trade. 

Well ! divines may say of it what they please, but execration is 
to the mind, what phlebotomy, is to the body ; the vital sluices of 
both are wonderfully relieved by their respective evacuations. 






No. CYI. 

FROM A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 

DEAR sir, Edinburgh, V2th March, 1791. 

Mr. Hill yesterday put into my hands a sheet of Grose's Antiquities 
containing a poem of yours, entitled Tain o Shanter y a tale. The 
very high pleasure I have received from the perusal of the admira- 
ble piece, I feel, demands the warmest acknowledgments. Hill tells 
me he is to send off a packet for you this day ; I cannot resist there- 
fore putting on paper what I must have told you in person, had I 
met with you after the recent perusal of your tale, which is, that I 
feel I owe you a debt, which, if undischarged, would reproach me 
with ingratitude. I have seldom in my life tasted of higher enjoy- 
ment from any work of genius, than I have received from this com- 
position ; and I am much mistaken, if this poem alone, had you 
never written another syllable, would not have been sufficient to 
have transmitted your name down to posterity with high reputa- 
tion. In the introductory part, where you paint the character of 
your hero, and exhibit him at the ale-house ingle, with his tippling 
cronies, you have delineated nature with a humour and naivete, thati 
would do honour to Matthew Prior; but when you describe th^ 
Ttunatc orgies of the witches' sabbath, and the hellish «cer 



LETTERS. 233 

in which they are exhibited, you display a power of imagination, 
that Shakspeare himself could not have exceeded. I know not 
that I have ever met *vith a picture of more horrible fancy than the 
following : 

a Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That showed the dead in their last dresses : 
And by some devilish cantrip slight, 
Each in his cauld hand held a light." 

But when I came to the succeeding lines, my blood ran cold with- 
in me : 

" A knife a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son of life bereft ; 
The grey hairs yet stuck to the heft." 

And here, after the two following lines, " Wi' mair o' horrible and 
awful'," &c. the descriptive part might perhaps have been better 
closed, than the four lines which succeed, which, though good in 
themselves, yet as they derive all their merit from the satire they 
contain, are here rather misplaced among the circumstances of pure 
horror.* The initiation of the young witch is most happily de- 
scribed — the effect of her charms, exhibited in the dance, on Satan 
himself— the apostrophe — "Ah, little thought thy reverend gran- 
nie !" — the transport of Tarn, who forgets his situation, and enters 
completely into the spirit of the scene, are all features of high merit, 
in this excellent composition. The only fault it possesses, is, that 
the winding up, or conclusion of the story, is not commensurate to 
the interest which is excited by the descriptive and characteristic 
painting of the preceding part. — The preparation is line, but the 
result is not adequate. But for this, perhaps, you have a good 
apology — you stick to the popular tale. 

And now that I have got out my mind, and feel a little relieved 
of the weight of that debt I owed you, let me end this desultory 
scroll by an advice : — You have proved your talent for a species of 
composition, in which but a very few of our own poets have suc- 
ceeded—Go on — write more tales in the same style ; you will eclipse 
Prior and La Fontaine ; for, with equal wit, equal power of num- 
bers, and equal naivete of expression, you have a bolder, and more 
vigorous imagination. 

I am, dear Sir, with much esteem, 
Yours, &c. 



No. CYII. 
TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 

SIR, 

Nothing less than the unfortunate accident I have met with, could 
have prevented my grateful acknowledgments for your letter. His 
own favourite poem, and that an essay in a walk of the muses en- 
I tirely new to him, where consequently his hopes and fears were in 
! the most anxious alarm for his success in the attempt ; to have that 
poem so much applauded by one of the first judges, was the most 

* Our bard profitted by Mr. Ty tier's criticism, and expunged the four lines ac- 
cordingly. 



234 BURNS' WOBKS 

delicious vibration that ever trilled along the heart strings of a 
poor poet. However, providence, to keep up the proper proportion 
of evU with the good, which it seems is necessary in this sublunary 
state, thought proper to check my exultation by a very serious mis- 
fortune. A day or two after I received your letter, my horse came 
down with me and broke my right arm. As this is the first service 
my arm has done me since its disaster, I find myself unable to do 
more than just in general terms to thank you for this additional 
instance of your patronage and friendship. As to the faults you 
detected in the piece, they are truly there : one of them, the hit at 
the lawyer and priest, I shall cut out ; as to the falling off in the 
catastrophe, for the reason you justly adduce, it cannot easily be re- 
medied. Your approbation, sir, has given me such additional spirits 
to persevere in this species of poetic composition, that I am already 
revolving two or three stories in my fancy. If I can bring these 
floating ideas to bear any kind of embodied form, it will give me 
an additional opportunity of assuring you how much I have the 
honour to be, &c. 



No. CVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 7th February, 1791. 
When I tell you, madam, that by a fall, not from my horse but with 
my horse, I have been a cripple some time, and that this is the first 
day my arm and hand have been able to serve me. in writing; you 
will allow that it is too good an apology for my seemingly ungrate- 
ful silence. I am now getting better, and am able to rhyme a lit- 
tle, which implies some tolerable ease ; as I cannot think that the 
most poetic genius is able to compose on the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I mentioned to you my having an idea 
of composing an elegy on the late Miss Burnet of Monboddo. I had 
the honour of being pretty well acquainted with her, and have sel- 
dom felt so much at the loss of an acquaintance, as when I heard 
that so amiable and accomplished a piece of God's works was no 
more. I have as yet gone no farther than the following fragments, 
of which please let me have your opinion. You know that elegy 
is a subject so much exhausted, that any new idea on the business 
is not to be expected ; 'tis well if we can place an old idea in anew 
light. How far I have succeeded as to this last, you will judge from 
what follows — 

(Here follows the Elegy dse, 9 adding this verse.) 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care ! 

So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravaged, leaves it bleak and bare. 



I have proceeded no further. 

Your kind letter, with your kind remembrance of your god- son, 
came safe. This last, madam, is scarcely what my pride can bear. 
As to the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, the finest boy I have 
of long time seen. He is now seventeen months old, has the small- 






LETTERS. 235 

pox and measles over, has cut several teeth, and yet never had a 
grain of doctor's drugs in his bowels. 

I am truly happy to hear that the " little floweret" is blooming 
so fresh and fair, and that the " mother plant" is rather recovering 
her drooping head. Soon and well may her " cruel wounds" be 
healed ! I have written thus far with a good deal of difficulty. 
When I get a little abler you shall hear farther from, 

Madam, yours, &c. 



No. CIX. 
TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE. 

ACKNOWLEDGING A PRESENT OP A VALUABLE SNUFF-BOX, WITH A FINE 
PICTURE OF MARY, QUEEN OP SCOTS, ON THE LID. 

MY LADY, 

Nothing less than the unlucky accident of having lately broken my 
right arm, could have prevented me, the moment I received your 
ladyship's elegant present by Mrs. Miller, from returning you my 
warmest and most grateful acknowledgments. I assure your lady- 
ship, I shall set it apart ; the symbols of religion shall only be more 
sacred. In the moment of poetic composition, the box shall be my 
inspiring genius. When I would breathe the comprehensive wish 
of benevolence for the happiness of others, I shall recollect your 
ladyship ; when I would interest my fancy in the distresses incident 
to humanity, I shall remember the unfortunate Mary. 






No. CX. 
MRS. GRAHAM, OF FINTRY. 

MADAM, 

Whether it is that the story of our Mary, Queen of Scots, has a 
peculiar effect on the feelings of a poet, or whether I have, in the 
inclosed ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic success, I know 
not ; but it has pleased me beyond any effort of my muse for a good 
while past ; on that account I inclose it particularly to you. It is 
true, the purity of my motives may be suspected. I am already 

deeply indebted to Mr. G 's goodness; and, what in the 

usual ways of men, is of infinitely greater importance, Mr. G. can do 
me service of the utmost importance in time to come. I was born 
a poor dog ; and however I may occasionally pick a better bone than 
I used to do, I know I must live and die poor ; but I will indulge 
the flattering faith that my poetry will considerably outlive my 
poverty ; and without any fustian affection of spirit, I can promise 
and affirm, that it must be no ordinary craving of the latter shall 
ever make me do any thing injurious to the honest fame of the 
former. Whatever may be my failings, for failings are a part of 
human nature, may they ever be those of a generous heart, and an 
independent mind. It is no fault of mine that I was born to de- 
pendence ; nor is it Mr. G 's chief est praise that he can 

command influence ; but it is his merit to bestow, not only with the 
kindness of a brother, but with the politeness of a gentleman ; and 



23 6 BURNS' WORKS. 

I trust it shall be mine, to receive with thankfulness and remember 
with undiminished gratitude. 



No. CXI. 
FROM THE REV. G. BAIRD. 

sir, London, 8th February, 1791. 

I trouble you with this letter, to inform you that I am in hopes of 
being able very soon to bring to the press a new edition (long since 
talked of) of Michael Bruce' s Poems. The profits of the edition are 
to go to his mother — a woman of eighty years of age — poor and 
helpless. The poems are to be published by subscription ; and it 
may be possible I think, to make out a 2s. Qd. or 3s. volume, with 
the assistance of a few hitherto unpublished verses, which I have 
got from the mother of the poet. 

But the design I have in view in writing to you, is not merely to 
inform you of these facts, it is to solicit the aid of your name and 
pen in support of the scheme. The reputation of Bruce is already 
high with every reader of classical taste, and I shall be anxious to 
guard against tarnishing his character, by allowing any new poems 
to appear that may lower it. For this purpose, the MSS. I am in 
possession of, have been submitted to the revision of some whose 
critical talents I can trust to, and I mean still to submit them to 
others. 

May I beg to know, therefore, if you will take the trouble of pe- 
rusing the MSS. — of giving your opinion, and suggesting what cur- 
tailments, alterations, or amendments, occur to you as advisable 1 
And will you allow us to let it be known, that a few lines by you 
will be added to the volume 1 

I know the extent of this request. — It is bold to make it. But 
I have this consolation, that though you see it proper to refuse it, 
you will not blame me for having made it ; you will see my apology 
in the motive. 

May I just add, that Michael Bruce is one in whose company, 
from his past appearance, you would not, I am convinced, blush to 
be tound; and as I would submit every line of his that should now 
be published, to your own criticisms, you would be assured that 
nothing derogatory either to him or you would be admitted in that 
appearance he may make in future. 

You have already paid an honourable tribute to kindred genius 
in Fergusson — I fondly hope that the mother of Bruce will expe- 
rience your patronage. 

I wish to have the subscription papers circulated by the 14th of 
March, Bruce's birth- day; which, I understand, some friends in 
Scotland talk this year of observing — at that time it will be re- 
solved, I imagine, to place a plain humble stone over his grave. 
This, at least, I trust you will agree to do — to furnish, in a few 
couplets, an inscription for it. 

On these points may I solicit an answer as early as possible ; a 
short delay might disappoint us in procuring that relief to the mo- 
ther, which is the object of the whole. 

You will be pleased to address for me under cover to the Duke 
of Athole, London. 



LETTERS. 237 



P. S.— Have you ever seen an engraving published here some 
time ago from one of your poems, " thou pale Orb" If you have 
not, I shall have the pleasure of sending it to you. 

2>To CXII. 
TO THE REV. G. BAIRD. 

IN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING. 

Wrt did you, my dear sir, write to me in such a hesitating style, 
on the business of poor Bruce] Don't T know, and have I not felt, 
the many ills, the peculiar ills that poetic flesh is heir to 1 You 
shall have your choice of all the unpublished poems I have ; and 
had your letter had my direction so as to have reached me sooner 
(it only came to my hand this moment), I should directly have put 
you out of suspense on the subject. I only ask, that some prefa- 
tory advertisement in the book, as well as the subscription bills, 
may bear, that the publication is solely for the benefit of Bruce's 
mother. I would not put it in the power of ignorance to surmise, 
or malice to insinuate, that I clubbed a share in the work from mer- 
cenary motives. Nor need you give me credit for any remarkable 
generosity in my part of the business. I have such a host of pecca- 
dilloes, failings, follies, and backslidings (any body but myself 
might perhaps give some of them a worse appellation,) that by way 
of some balance, however trifling, in the account, I am fain to do 
any good that occurs in my very limited power to a fellow creature, 
just for the selfish purpose of clearing a little the vista of retro- 
spection. 

/f* tic y^ yfc 5t» ss 



No. CXIII. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Ellisland, 2Sth February, 1791. 
I do not know, sir, whether you are a subscriber to Grose's Antiqui- 
ties*of Scotland, If you are, the inclosed poem will not be altoge- 
ther new to you. Captain Grose did me the favour to send me a 
dozen copies of the proof-sheet, of which this is one. Should you 
have read the piece before, still this will answer the principal 
end I have in view ; it will give me another opportunity of thank- 
ing you for all your goodness to the rustic bard ; and also of show- 
ing you, that the abilities you have been pleased to commend and 
patronize are still employed in the way you wish. 

The Elegy on Captain Hen derson, is a tribute to the memory of a 
man I loved much. Poets have in this the same advantage as the 
Roman Catholics ; they can be of service to their friends after they 
have past that bourne where all other kindness ceases to be of any 
avail. Whether, after all, either the one or the other be of any 
real service to the dead, is, I fear, very problematical ; but 1 am 
sure they are highly gratifying to the living : and as a very ortho- 
dox text, I forget where in Scripture, says, " whatsoever is not of 



238 



BURNS 9 WORKS. 



faith, is sin f so say I, whatsoever is not detrimental to society, 
and is of positive enjoyment, is of God, the giver of all good things, 
and ought to be received and enjoyed by his creatures with thank- 
ful delight. As almost all my religious tenets originate from my 
heart, I am wonderfully pleased with the idea, that I can still 
keep up a tender intercourse with the dearly beloved friend, or 
still more dearly beloved mistress, who is gone to th'e world of 
spirits. 

The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I was busy with 
" Percy's Eeliques of English Poetry." By the way, how much is 
every honest heart, which has a tincture of Caledonian prejudice 
obliged to you for your glorious story of Buchanan and Targe. 
'Twas an unequivocal proof of your loyal gallantry of soul, giving 
Targe the victory. 1 should have been mortified to the ground if 
you had not. 

***** 

I have just read over, once more of many times, your " Zeluco." 
I marked with my pencil, as I went along, every passage that pleas- 
ed me particularly above the rest ; and one, or two, I think, which, 
with humble deference, I am disposed to think unequal to the me- 
rits of the book. I have sometimes thought to transcribe these 
marked passages, or at least so much of them as to point where 
they are, and send them to you. Original strokes that strongly de- 
pict the human heart, is your and Fielding's province, beyond any 
other novelist I have ever perused. Richardson indeed might per- 
haps be excepted ; but, unhappily, his dramatis persona are beings 
of some other world ; and however they may captivate the unex- 
perienced, romantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever, in pro- 
portion as we have made human nature our study, dissatisfy our 
riper minds. 

As to my private concerns, I am going on a mighty tax-gatherer 
before the Lord, and have lately had the interest to get myself 
ranked on the list of excise as a supervisor. I am not yet employed 
as such, but in a few years I shall fall into the file of supervisor- 
ship by seniority. I have had an immense loss in the death of the 
Earl of Glencairn ; the patron from whom all my fame and good 
fortune took its rise. Independent of my grateful attachment to 
him, which was indeed so strong that it pervaded my very soul, 
and was entwined with the thread ol my existence ; so soon as the 
prince's friends had got in (and every dog, you know, has his day), 
my getting forward in the excise would have been an easier busi- 
ness than otherwise it will be. Though this was a consummation 
devoutly to be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can liv^e and rhyme as 
I am; and as to my boys, poor little fellows ! if I cannot place 
them on as high an elevation in life as I could wish, I shall, if I 
am favoured so much of the Disposer of events as to see that period, 
fix them on as broad and independent a basis as possible. Among 
the many wise adages which have been treasured up by our Scot- 
tish ancestors, this is one of the best, Better he the head of the com' 
monalty, as the tail o' the gentry. 

But I am got on a subject, which, however interesting to me, is of 
no manner of consequence to you ; so I shall give you a short poem 



LETTERS, 239 

on the other page, and close this with assuring you how sincerely 
1 have the honour to be, yours, &c. 



Written on the blank leaf of a book, which I presented to a very 
young lady, whom 1 had formerly characterised under the denomi- 
nation of The Red Rose. 



No. CXIV. 

FEOM DE. MOOEE. 
dear SIR, London, 29th March, 1791. 

Your letter of the 28th of February I received only two days ago, 
and this day I had the pleasure of waiting on the Eev. Mr. Baird, 
at the Duke of Athole's, who had been so obliging as to transmit it 
to me, with the printed verses on Alloway Church, the Elegy on 
Capt. Henderson, and the Epitaph. There are many poetical beau- 
ties in the former : what I particularly admire are the three 
striking similes from 

1 Or like the snow falls in the river.' 
and the eight lines which begin with 

6 By this time he was cross the ford ;' 

so exquisitely expressive of the superstitious impressions of the 
country. And the twenty-two lines from 

" Coffins stood round like open presses," 

which, in my opinion, are equal to the ingredients of Shakspeare's 
cauldron in Macbeth. 

As for the Elegy, the chief merit of it consists in the very graphic 
description of the objects belonging to the country in which the 
poet writes, and which none but a Scottish poet could have de- 
scribed, and none but a real poet, and a close observer of Nature, 
could have so described. 

There is something original, and to me wonderfully pleasing in the 
Epitaph. 

I remember you once hinted before, what you repeat in your 
last, that you had made some remarks on Zeluco, on the margin. I 
should be very glad to see them, and regret you did not send them 
before the last edition, which is just published. Pray transcribe 
them for me. I sincerely value your opinion very highly, and pray 
do not suppress one of those in which you censure the sentiment or 
expression. Trust me ifc will break no squares between us — I am 
not akin to the Bishop of Grenada. 

I must now mention what has been on my mind for some time ; 
I cannot help thinking you imprudent in scattering abroad so many 
copies of your verses. It is most natural to give a few to confiden- 
tial friends, particularly to those who are connected with the sub- 
ject, or who are perhaps themselves the subject, but this ought to 
be done under promise not to give other copies. Of the poem you 
sent me on Queen Mary, I refused every solicitation for copies, but 
1 lately saw it in a newspaper. My motive for cautioning you on 
this subject is, that I wish to engage you to collect all your fugitive 



240 burns' works. 

pieces, not already printed, and after they have been re- considered, 
and polished to the utmost of your power, I would have you to 
publish them by another subscription ; in promoting of which I 
will exert myself with pleasure. 

In your future compositions, I wish you would use the modern 
English. You have shown your powers in Scottish sufficiently. 
Although in certain subjects it gives additional zest to the humour, 
yet it is lost to the English ; and why should you write only for a 
part of the island, when you can command the admiration of the 
whole. 

If you chance to write to my friend Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, I 
beg to be affectionately remembered to her. She must not judge 
of the warmth of my sentiments respecting her, by the number of 
my letters : I hardly ever write a line but on business : and I do 
not know that I should have scribbled all this to you, but for the 
business-part, that is, to instigate you to a new publication ; and to 
tell you that when you think you have a sufficient number to make 
a volume, you should set your friends on getting subscriptions. I 
wish I could have a few hours' conversation with you — I have many 
things to say which I cannot write. If I ever go to Scotland, I will 
let you know, that you may meet me at your own house, or my 
friend Mrs. Hamilton's, or both. 

Adieu, my dear Sir, &c. 



No. CXV. 

TO THE EEY. ARCH. ALISON. 

sir, Ellisland, near Dumfries, 14th Feb.^ 1791. 

You must, by thi3 time, have set me down as one of the most un- 
grateful of men. You did me the honour to present me with a book 
which does honour to science and the intellectual powers of man, and 
I have not even so much as acknowledged the receipt of it. Flat- 
tered as I was by your telling me that you wished to have my opi- 
nion of the work, the old spiritual enemy of mankind, who knows 
well that vanity is one of the sins that most easily beset me, put it 
into my head to ponder over the performance with the look-out of 
a critic, and to draw up forsooth a deep learned digest of strictures 
on a composition, of which, in fact, until I read the book, I did not 
even know the first principles. I own, sir, that at first glance, se- 
veral of your propositions startled me as paradoxical. That the 
martial clangor of a trumpet had something in it vastly more grand, 
heroic and sublime, than the twingle twangle of a Jews' harp ; that 
the delicate flexure of a rose-twig, when the half blown flower is 
heavy with the tears of the dawn, was infinitely more beautiful and 
elegant than the upright stub of a burdock ; and that from some- 
thing innate and independent of all association of ideas : — these I 
set down as irrefragible, orthodox truths, until perusing your book 
shook my faith. — In short, sir, except Euclid's Elements of Geometry, 
which I made a shift to unravel by my father's fire side, in the win- 
ter evening of the first season I held the plough, I never read a book 
which gave me such a quantum of information, and added so much 
to my stock of ideas as your " Essays on the Principles of Taste," 
One thing, sir, you must forgive my mentioning as an uncommon 



1ETTERS. 241 

merit in the work, I mean the language. To clothe abstract phi- 
losophy in elegance of style, sounds something like a contradiction 
in terms; but you have convinced me that they are quite compa- 
tible. 

I inclose you some poetic bagatelles of my late composition. The 
one in print is my first essay in the way of telling a tale. 

I am, Sir, &c. 
v . 

• No. CXYI. 

EXTRACT OP A LETTER 

TO ME. CUNNINGHAM. 

12th March, 1791. 
If the foregoing piece be worth your strictures, let me have them. 
For my own part, a thing that I have just composed, always appears 
through a double portion of that partial medium in which an au- 
thor will ever view his own works. I believe, in general, novelty 
has something in it that inebriates the fancy, and not unfrequently 
dissipates and fumes away like other intoxication, and leaves the 
poor patient, as usual, with an aching heart. A striking instance 
of this might be adduced, in the revolution of many a hymeneal 
honeymoon. But lest I sink into stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously 
intrude on the ofiice of my parish priest, I shall lill up the page in 
my own way, and give you another song of my late composition, 
which will appear, perhaps, in Johnson's weak, as well as the 
former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, There'll never he peace 
tillJamie comes hame. When political combustion ceases to be the 
object of princes and patriots, it then, you know, becomes the law- 
ful prey of historians and poets. 

By yon castle wa\ at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing, though his head it was grey ; 
i\nd as he Avas singing, the tears last down came-— 
'! here'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame. 

The church is in ruins, the st ;te is in jars, 
Delusions, oppressions, and n.urderous wars : 
We dare na' weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame — 
There'll never be peace WW Jamie comes hame. 

My seven br -iw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd : 
It brack the sweetheart o' my f'aithfu' auld dame — 
There'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame. 
Now life is a burden that bows me down, 
Sin' I tint ray bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But 'till my last moment my words are the same — 
There'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame. 
• • • • 

If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your fancy, you cannot 
imagine, my dear friend, how much you would oblige me, if, by 
the charms of your delightful voice, you would give my honest effu- 
sion to " the memory of joys that are past,"tothe few friends whom 
you indulge in that pleasure. But 1 have subscribed on 'till 1 hear 
the clock has intimated the near approach of 

" That hoar o' night's black arch the key-stane." 
J* 



242 BUBNS' WORKS. 

So good-night to you ! Sound be your sleep, and delectable your 
dreams ! A propos, how do you like this thought in a ballad, I have 
j ust now on the tapis % 

I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 
That happy ray dreams and my slumbers may he : 

For far in the west is he 1 lo'e best— 
The lad that is dear to my baby and me ! 
• ••••• »««t 

Good night, once more, and God bless you ! 



No. CXVIL 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ell-island^ Wth April, 1791. 
1 A si once more able, my honoured friend, to return you, with my 
own hand, thanks for the many instances of your friendship, and 
particularly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster that my evil 
genius had in store for me. However, life is chequered — joy and 
sorrow — for on Saturday last, Mrs. Burns made me a present of a 
fine boy ; rather stouter but not so handsome as your god-son was 
at his time of life. Indeed, I look on your little namesake to be 
my chef d'auvre in that species of manufacture, as I look on Tarn, 
o' Shanter to be my standard performance in the poetical line. 
'Tis true, both the one and the other discover a spice of roguish 
•waggery, that might, perhaps, be as well spared; but then, 
they also show, in my opinion, a force of genius, and a finishing 
polish, that I despair of ever excelling. Mr3. Burns is getting 
stout again, and laid as lustily about her to-day at breakfast, as a 
reaper from the corn-ridge. That is the peculiar privilege and 
blessing of our hale, sprightly damsels, that are bred among the 
hay and heather. We cannot hope for that highly polished mind, 
that charming delicacy of soul, which is found among the female 
"world in the more elevated stations of life, and which is certainly 
by far the most bewitching charm in the famous cestus of Yenus. 
It is, indeed, such an inestimable treasure, that where it can be 
had in its native heavenly purity, unstained by some one or other 
of the many shades of affectation, and unalloyed by some one or 
other of the many species of caprice, 1 declare to Heaven, I should 
think it cheaply purchased at the expense of every other earthly 
good ! But as this angelic creature is, I am afraid, extremely rare 
in any station and rank of life, and totally denied to such an hum- 
ble one as mine ; we meaner mortals must put up with the next 
rank of female excellence — as fine a figure and face we can produce 
as any rank of life whatever ; rustic, native grace ; unaffected mo- 
desty, and unsullied purity; nature's mother- wit, and the rudi- 
ments of taste ; a simplicity of soul, unconscious of, because unac- 
quainted with, the crooked ways of a selfish, interested, disingenu- 
ous world ; — and the dearest charm of all the rest, a yielding sweet* 
nes3 of disposition, and a generous warmth of heart, grateful for 
love on our part, and ardently glowing with a more than equal re- 
turn ; these, with a healthy frame, a sound vigorous constitution, 
which your high ranks can scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are the 
charms of lovely woman in my humble walk of life. 



LETTERS. 243 

This is the greatest effort my broken arm has yet made. Do, let 
me hear by fir3t post, how cker petit Monsieiir comes on with his 
small-pox. May Almighty Goodness preserve and restore him ! 



No. CXVIII 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

11th June, 1791. 
Let me interest yon, my dear Cunningham, in behalf of the gentle- 
man, who waits on you with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, 
principal schoolmaster there, and is at present suffering severely 

under the of one or two powerful individuals of 

his employers. He is accused of harshness to that 

were placed under his care. God help the teacher, if a man of 
sensibility and genius, and such is my friend Clarke, when a booby 
father presents him with his booby son, and insists on lightening up 
the rays of science, in a fellow's head whose skull is impervious and 
inaccessible by any other way than a positive fracture with a cudgel ; 
a fellow whom, in fact, it savours of impiety to attempt making a 
scholar of, as he has been marked a blockhead in the book of fate, 
at the Almighty fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat school are, the ministers, magistrates, and 
town-council of Edinburgh, and as the business comes now before 
them, let me beg my dearest friend to do every thing in his power 
to serve the interests of a man of genius and worth, and a man 
whom I particularly respect and esteem. You know some good 

fellows among the magistracy and council, 

* • • ■ but particularly, you have much to say with a rev- 
erend gentleman to whom you have the honour of being very 
nearly related, and whom this country and age have had the honour 
to produce. 1 need not name the historian of Charles V.* I tell 
him, through the medium of his nephew's influence, that Mr. Clarke 
is a gentleman who will not disgrace even his patronage. I know 
the merits of the cause thoroughly, and say it, that my friend is 

falling a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance, and God 

help the children of dependence ! Hated and persecuted by 
their enemies, and too often, alas ! almost unexceptionably, received 
by their friends with disrespect and reproach, under the thin 
disguise of cold civility and humiliating advice. O to be a 
sturdy savage, stalking in the pride of his independence, amid the 
solitary wilds of his deserts, rather than in civilized life, helplessly 
to tremble for subsistence, precarious as the caprice of a fellow- 
creature ! Every man has his virtues, and no man is without his 
failings ; and curse on that privileged plain-dealing of friendship, 
which in the hour of my calamity, cannot reach forth the helping 
hand without at the same time pointing out those failings, and ap- 
portioning them their share in procuring my present distress. My 
friends, for such the world calls ye, and such ye think yourselves 
to be, pas3 by virtues if you please, but do, also, spare my follies : 
the first will witness in my breast for themselves, and the last will 
give pain enough to the ingenuous mind without you. And since 
deviating more or less from the paths of propriety and rectitude, 

*Dr. Robertson was uncle to Mr. Cunningham. 



244 BURNS 1 WORKS. 

must be incident to human nature, do thou, fortune, put it in my 
power, always from myself, and of myself, to bear the consequences 
of those errors. I do not want to be independent that I may 
sin, but I want to be independent in my sinning. 

To return in this rambling letter to the subject I set-out with, 
let me recommend my iriend, Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and 
good offices ; his worth entitles him to the one, and his gratitude 
will merit the other. I long much to hear from you. Adieu. 



No. CXIX. 

FROM THE EARL OF BITCH AN. 

Dryburgh Abbey, Ylth June, 1791. 
Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr. Burns to make one at 
the coronation of the bust of Thomson, on Ednam Hill, on the 
22nd of September ; for which day perhaps his muse may inspire 
an ode suited to the occasion. Suppose Mr. Burns should, leaving 
the Nith, go across the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest 
point from his farm — and, wandering along the pastoral banks of 
Thomson's pure parent stream, catch inspiration on the devious 
walk, till he finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dryburgh. 
There the commendator will give him a hearty welcome, and try to 
light his lamp at the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar of 
Caledonian virtue. This poetical perambulation of the Tweed, is a 
thought of the late Sir Gilbert Elliot's and of Lord Minto's, fol- 
lowed out by his accomplished grandson, the present Sir Gilbert, 
who, having been with Lord Buchan lately, the project was renewed, 
and will, they hope, be executed in the manner proposed. 



No. CXX. 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

My Lord, 
Language sinks under the ardour of my feelings, when I would 
thank your lordship for the honour you have done me in inviting 
me to make one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson. In my 
first enthusiasm in reading the card you did me the honour to 
write me, I overlooked every obstacle, and determined to go ; but 
I fear it will not be in my power. A week or two's absence, in the 
very middle of my harvest, is what I much doubt I dare not ven- 
ture on. 

Your lordship hints at an ode for the occasion : but who would 
write after Collins? I read over his verses to the memory of 
Thomson, and despaired — I got indeed to the length of three or 
four stanzas, in the way of address to the shade of the bard, on 
crowning his bust. I shall trouble your lordship, with the sub- 
joined copy of them, which, I am afraid, will be but too convincing 
a proof how unequal 1 am to the task. However, it affords me an 
opportunity of approaching your lordship, and declaring how sin- 
cerely and gratefully 1 have the honour to be, &c. 



LETTERS. 245 

No. CXXI. 
FKOM THE SAME. 

Dryburyh Abbey, 18th September, 1791. 

Sir, 
Your address to the shade of Thomson has been well received by 
the public ; and though I should disapprove of your allowing Pe- 
gassus to ride with you off the field of your honourable and useful 
profession, yet I cannot resist an impulse which I feel at this mo- 
ment to suggest to your muse, Harvest Home, as an excellent sub- 
ject for her grateful song, in which the peculiar aspect and manners 
of our country might furnish an excellent portrait and landscape of 
Scotland, for the employment of happy moments of leisure and 
recess, from your more important occupations. 

Your Halloween, and Saturday Night, will remain to distant pos- 
terity as interesting pictures of rural innocence and happiness in 
your native country, and were happily written in the dialect of the 
people ; but Harvest Home being suited to descriptive poetry, ex- 
cept where colloquial, may escape disguise of a dialect which ad- 
mits of no elegance or dignity of expression. Without the assist- 
ance of any god or goddess, and without the invocation of any foreign 
muse, you may convey in epistolary form the description of a scene 
so gladdening and picturesque, with all the concomitant local posi- 
tion, landscape and costume ; contrasting the peace, improvement, 
and happiness of the borders of the once hostile nations of Britain, 
with their former oppression and misery, and showing, in lively and 
beautifnl colours, the beauties and joys of a rural life. And as the 
unvitiated heart is naturally disposed to overflow in gratitude in 
the moment of prosperity, such a subject would furnish you with 
an amiable opportunity of perpetuating the names of Glencairn, 
Miller, and your other eminent benefactors ; which from what I 
know of your spirit, and have seen of jour poems and letters, will 
not deviate from the chastity of praise, that is so uniformly united 
to true taste and genius. I am, Sir, &c. 



No. CXX1I. 
TO LADY CUNNINGHAM. 

MY LADY, 

I would, as usual, have availed myself of the privilege your good- 
ness has allowed me, of sending you any thing I compose in the 
poetical way ; but as 1 had resolved, so soon as the shock of my ir- 
reparable loss would allow me, to pay a tribute to my late benefactor, 
I determined to make that the first piece 1 should do myself the honour 
of sending you. Had the wing of my fancy been equal to the ar- 
dour of my heart, the enclosed had been much more worthy of your 
perusal ; as it is I beg leave to lay it at your ladyship's feet. As all 
the world knows my obligations to the late Earl of Glencairn, I 
would wish to shew as openly that my heart glows with the most 
grateful sense of rememberance of his lordship's goodness. The 
sables I did myself the honour to wear to his lordship's memory were 
not the " mockery of woe." Nor shall my gratitude perish with 
me : — If, among my children, 1 shall have a son that has a heart, 
he shall hand it down to his child as a family honour, and a family 



246 



BURNS' WORKS. 



debt, that my dearest existence I owe to the noble house of Glen- 
cairn ! 

I was about to say, my lady, that if you think the poem may ven- 
ture to see the light, I would, in some way or other give it to the 
world.* 






No. CXXIII. 
TO ME. AINSLIE. 



MY BEAR AINSLIE, 

Can you minister to a mind diseased 1 



Can 



you. 



amid the hor- 



rors of penitence, regret, remorse, head-ache, nausea, and all the 

d d hounds of hell, that beset a poor wretch, who has been 

guilty of the sin of drunkeness — can you speak to the troubled 
soul? 

Miserable perdu that I am, I have tried every thing that used to 
amuse me, but in vain ; here must I sit a monument of the venge- 
ance laid up in store for the wicked, slowly counting every chick of 
the clock as it slowly — slowly numbers over these lazy scoundrels of 
hours, who d — n them, are ranked up before me, every one at his 
neighbour's backside, and every one with a burthen of anguish 
on his back, to pour on my devoted head— and there is none to pity 
me. My wife scolds me ! my business torments me, and my sins 
come staring me in the face, every one telling a more bitter tale 
than his fellow. — When I tell you even • * has lost his 
power to please, yon will guess something of my hell within, and 
all around me — I began Elibanks and JSiibraes, but the stanza fell 
unen joyed and unfinished from my listless tongue ; at last I luckily 
thought of reading over an old letter of yours, that lay by me in 
my book-case, and I felt something for the first time since I opened 

my eyes, of pleasurable existence. Well — I begin to breathe a 

little, since I began to write you. How are you and what are you 
doing 1 How goes law ? Appropos, for connection's sake do not ad- 
dress me supervisor, for that in an honour I cannot pretend to — I 
am on the list, as we call it, for a supervisor, and will be called out 
by and bye to act one ; but at present, I am a simple guager, tho' 
t'other day I got an appointment to an excise division of £25 per 
ann. better than the rest. My present income, down money, is 
£70 per ann. 

I have one or two good fellows here whom you would be glad 
to know. 



No. CXXIV. 

FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

Sir, Near Maybole, \§th October, 1791. 

Accept of my thanks for your favour with the Lament on the death 
of my much esteemed friend, and your worthy patron, the perusal 

* The peem inclosed, is " The I<ai»ent for James, Earl of Glencaim." 



LETTERS. 247 

of which pleased and affected me much. The lines addressed to 
me are very flattering. 

I have always thought it most natural to suppose, (and a strong 
argument in favour of a future existence) that when we see an 
honourable and virtuous man labouring under bodily inlirmities, 
and oppressed by the frowns of fortune in this world, that there was 
a happier state beyond the grave ; where that worth and honour 
which were neglected here, would meet with their just reward, and 
where temporal misfortunes would receive an eternal recompense. 
Let us cherish this hope for cur departed friend ; and moderate our 
grief for that loss we have sustained ; knowing that he cannot re- 
turn to us, but we may go to him. 

Remember me to your wife, and with every good wish for the 
prosperity of you and your family, believe me at all times, 

Your most sincere friend, 

JOHN WHITEFOORD. 



No. CXXY. 

FROM A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 

Edinburgh, 27 th Nov. 1791. 
You have much reason to blame me for neglecting till now to ac- 
knowledge the receipt of a most agreeable packet, containing The 
Whistle, a ballad; and The Lament ; which reached me about six 
weeks ago in London, from whence I am just returned. Your let- 
ter was forwarded to me there from Edinburgh, where, as I ob- 
served by the date, it had lain for some days. This was an addi- 
tional reason for me to have answered it immediately on receiving 
it ; but the truth was, the bustle of business, engagements and con- 
fusion of one kind or another, in which I found myself immersed 
all the time I was in London, absolutely put it out of my power. 
But to have done with apologies, let me now endeavour to prove 
myself in some degree deserving of the very flattering compliment 
you pay me, by giving you at least a frank and candid, if it should 
not be a judicious criticism on the poems you sent me. 

The ballad of The Whistle is, in my opinion, truly excellent. The 
old tradition which you have taken up is the best adapted for a 
Bacchanalian composition of any I have ever met with, and you 
have done it full justice. In the first place, the strokes of wit arise 
naturally from the subject, and are commonly happy. For ex- 
ample, — 

4 The hands grew the tighter the more they were wet 

1 Cynthia hinted she'd find them next morn/ 

1 Though Fate said a hero should perish in light, 
So up rose bright Phoebus and down fell the knight.' 

In the next place, you are singularly happy in the discrimination 
of your heroes, and in giving each the sentiments and language 
suitable to his character. And, lastly, you have much merit in the 
delicacy of the panegyric which you have contrived to throw on 
each of the dramatis persona;, perfectly appropriate to his character. 
This compliment to Sir Robert, the blunt soldier, is peculiarly fine. 
In short, this composition, in my opinion, does you great honour. 



248 BURNS' WORKS. 

and I see not a line or a word in it which I could wish to be 
altered. 

As to The Lament, I suspect, from some expressions in your letter 
to me, that you are more doubtful with respect to the merits of this 
piece than of the other, and I own T think you have reason ; for 
although it contains some beautiful stanzas, as the first, " The wind 
blew hollow," &c. the fifth, " Ye scatter'd birds ;" the thirteenth, 
" Awake thy last sad voice," &c. Yet it appears to me faulty as a 
whole, and inferior to several of those you have already published 
in the same strain. My principal objection lies against the plan of 
the piece. I think it was unnecessary and improper to put the la- 
mentation in the mouth of a fictitious character, an aged lard. — It 
had been much better to have lamented your patron in your own 
person, to have expressed your genuine feelings for his loss, and to 
have spoken the language of nature rather than that of fiction on 
the subject. Compare this with your poem of the same title in 
your printed volume, which begins, thou, pale Orb I and observe 
what it is that forms the charm of that composition. It i3, that it 
speaks the language of truth and of nature. The change is, in my 
opinion, injudicious too in this respect, that an aged bard has much 
less need of a patron and protector than a young one. I have thus 
given you, with much freedom, my opinion of both the pieces. I 
should have made a very ill return to the compliment you paid me, 
if I had given you any other than my genuine sentiments. 

It will give me great pleasure to hear from you when you find 
leisure, and I beg you wiil believe me ever, dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. CXXYI. 
TO MISS DAYIES. 

It is impossible, madam, that the generous warmth and angelic 
purity of your youthful mind, can have any idea of that moral 
disease under which I unhappily must rank as the chief of sinners ; 
I mean a torpitude of the moral powers that may be called, a lethargy 
of conscience. — In vain remorse rears her horrent crest, and rouses 
all her snakes ; beneath the deadly fixed eye and leaden hand of in- 
dolence, their wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of the bat, 
slumbering out the rigours of winter in the chink of a ruined wall. 
Nothing less, madam, could have made me so long neglect your 
obliging commands. Indeed I had one apology — the bagatelle was 
not worth presenting. Besides, so strongly am I interested in Miss 

D 's fate and welfare in the serious business of life, amid its 

chances and changes ; that to make her the subject of a silly ballad, 
is downright mockery of these ardent feelings; 'tis like an imperti- 
nent jest to a dying friend. 

Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity between our wishes and 
our powers] Why is the most generous wish to make others blest, 
impotent and ineffectual— as the idle breeze that crosses the path- 
less desert] In my walks of life I have met with a few people to 
whom how gladly would I have said — " Go, be happy ! 1 know 
that your hearts have been wounded by the scorn of the proud, 
whom accident has placed above you— or worse still, in whose hand 
are, perhaps, placed many of the comforts of your life. But there .' 



LETTERS. 249 

ascend that rock, Independence, and look justly down on their 
littleness of soul. Make the worthless tremble under your indigna- 
tion, and the foolish sink before your contempt ; and largely impart 
that happiness to others, which, I am certain, will give yourselves 
so much pleasure to bestow !" 

Why, dear madam, must I wake from this delightful reverie, and 
find it all a dream ] Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must I 
find myself poor and powerless, incapable of wiping one tear from 
the eye of pity, or of adding one comfort to the friend I love ! — Out 
upon the world ! say I, that its affairs are administered so ill ? 
They talk of reform ; — good Heaven ! what a reform would I make 
among the sons, and even the daughters of meu ! — Down, immedi- 
ately, should go fools from the high places where misbegotten 
chance has perked them up, and through life should they skulk, 
ever haunted by their native insignificance, as the body marches 
accompanied by its shadow. — As for a much more formidable class, 
the knaves, I am at a loss what to do with them : Had I a world, 

there should not be a knave in it. 

* * * * 

But the hand that could give, I would liberally fill ; and I would 
pour delight on the heart that could kindly forgive, and generously 
love. 

Still the inequalities of his life are, among men, comparatively 
tolerable — but there is a delicacy, in tenderness, accompanying 
every view in which we can place lovely Woman, that are grated 
and shocked at the rude, capricious distinctions of fortune. Women 
is the blood- royal of life : let there be slight degrees of precedency 
among them — but let them be all sacred. Whether this last senti- 
ment be right or wrong, 1 am not accountable ; it is an original 
component feature of my mind. 



No. CXXVII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 17 th December, 1791. 
Many thanks to you, madam, for your good news respecting the 
little floweret and the mother plant. I hope my poetic prayers have 
been heard, and will be answered up to the warmest sincerity of 
their fullest extent ; and then Mrs. Henri will find her little dar- 
ling the representative of his late parent, in every thing but his 
abridged existence. 

I have just finished the following song, which, to a lady the de- 
scendant of Wallace, and many heroes of his truly illustrious line, 
and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor 
apology. 

Scene, — A field of battle — time of the day, evening — the wounded and 
dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following 

SONG OF DEATH. 

Farewell, theu f a r day, thou green eartii aid ye sk^g, 
Nbw giy with the broad setting sun; 
h 5 



250 BURNS* WORKS.' 

Farewell, loves and friendships ; ye dear, tender ties, 
Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 

Go frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, 

No terror hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the poor peasant— he sinks in the dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name : 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in our hands, 

Our king and our country to save — 
"While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands — 

O, who would not die with the brave ! 

The circumstance that gave rise to the foregoing verses was, 
looking over, with a musical friend, M 'Donald's collection of High- 
land airs ; I was struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune, entitled 
Or an an Aoig, or The Song of Death, to the measure of which 1 
have adapted my stanzas. I have of late composed two or three 
other little pieces, which ere yon full orbed moon, whose broad im- 
pudent face now stares at old mother earth all night, shall have 
shrunk into a modest crescent, j ust peeping forth at dewy dawn, I 
shall find an hour to transcribe for you. A Dieuje votes commende I 



No. CXXYIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

5th January, 1792. 

You see my hurried life, madam ; I can only command starts of 
time ; however, I am glad of one thing ; since I finished the other 
sheet, the political blast that threatened my welfare is overblown. 
I have corresponded with Commissioner Graham, for the Board had 
made me the subject of their animadversions; and now I have the 
pleasure of informing you, that all is set to rights in that quarter. 

Now, as to these informers, may the devil be let loose to but 

hold ! I was praying most fervently in my last sheet, and I must 
not so soon fall a swearing in this. 

Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly officious think what 
mischief they do by their malicious insinuations, indirect imperti- 
nence, or thoughtless blabbings. What a difference there is in in- 
trinsic worth, candour, benevolence, generosity, kindness — in all 
the charities and all the virtues, between one class of human beings 
and another. For instance, the amiable circle I so lately mixed 

with in the hospitable hall of D , their generous hearts — their 

uncontaminated dignified minds — their informed and polished un- 
derstandings — what a contrast, when compared — if such comparing 
were not downright sacrilege — with the soul of the miscreant who 
can deliberately plot the destruction of an honest man that never 
offended him, and with a grin of satisfaction see the unfortunate 
being, his faithful wife, and prattling innocents, turned over to 
beggary and ruin ! 

Your cup, my dear madam, arrived safe, I had two worthy 
w3 dining with me the other day, when I, with great formality.? 



LETTERS. 251 

produced my whigmeleerie cup, and told them that it had been a 
family-piece among the descendants of Sir William Wallace. This 
roused such an enthusiasm, that they insisted on bumpering the 
punch round in it ; and by and bye, never did your great ancestor 
lay a Southron more completely to rest than for a time did your 
cup my two friends. Apropos, this is the season of wishing. May 
God bless you, my dear friend, and bless me the humblest and sin- 
cerest of your friends, by granting you yet many returns of the 
season ! May all good things attend you and yours wherever they 
are scattered over the earth ! 



Ko. CXXIX. 

TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, PRINTER. 

Dumfries, 22 d January, 1792. 
I sit down, my dear sir, to introduce a young lady to you, and a 
lady in the first ranks of fashion too. What a task ! to you — who 
care no more for the herd of animals called young ladies, than you 
do for the herd of animals called young gentlemen. To you — who 
despise and detest the groupings and combinations of fashion, as an 
idiot painter that seems industrious to place staring fools and un- 
principled knaves in the foregoing of his picture, while men of 
sense and honesty are too often thrown in the dimmest shades. 
Mrs. Riddel, who will take this letter to town with her and send it 
to you, is a character that, even in your own way, as a naturalist 
and a philosopher, would be an acquisition to your acquaintance. 
The lady too is a votary of the muses : and as I think myself some- 
what of a judge in my own trade, I assure you that her verses, 
always correct, and often elegant, are much beyond the common 
run of the lady-poetesses of the day. She is a great admirer of 
your book, and hearing me say that I wa3 acquainted with you, 
she begged to be known to you, as she is just going to pay her first 
visit to our Caledonian capital. I told her that her best way was 
to desire her near relation, and your intimate friend, Craigdarroch, 
to have you at hi3 house while she was there ; and lest you might 
think of a lively West Indian girl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen 
too often deserve to be thought of, 1 should take care to remove 
that prejudice. To be impartial, however, in appreciating the 
lady's merits, she has one unlucky failing, a failing which you will 
easily discover, as she seems rather pleased with indulging in it ; 
and a failing that you will easily pardon, as it is a sin which very 
much besets yourself; — where she dislikes or despises, she is apt to 
make no more a secret of it, than where she esteems and respects. 

I will not present you with the unmeaning compliments of the 
season, but I will send you my warmest wishes and most ardent 
prayers, that fortune may never throw your subsistence to the 
mercy of a knave, or set your character on the judgment of a fool, 
but that, upright and erect, you may walk to an honest grave, 
where men of letters shall say, here lies a man who did honour to 
science ; and men of worth shall say, here lies a man who did honouif 
£o Jiuman nature ! 



252 BURNS' WORKS. 

No. CXXX. 

TO MR. W. NICHOL. 

29 th February, 1792. 

O thou, wisest among the wise, meredian blaze of prudence, full 
moon of discretion, and chief of many counsellors ! How infinitely 
33 thy puddle-headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, round headed 
slave indebted to thy super-eminent goodness, that from the lumi- 
nous path of thy own right-lined rectitude, thou lookest benignly 
down on an erring wretch, of whom the zig zag wanderings defy all 
the powers of calculation, from the simple copulation of units, up 
to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! May one feeble ray of that 
light of wisdom which darts from thy sensorium, straight as the 
arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspiration, may it be 
my portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the face and favour 
of that father of proverbs and master of maxims, that antipode of 
folly, and magnet among the sages, the wise and witty Willie Nicol ! 
Amen ! Amen ! Yea, so be it ! 

For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing ! From the 
cave of my ignorance, amid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential 
fumes of my political heresies, I look up to thee, as doth a toad 
through the iron barred lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon, to the 
cloudless glory of a summer's sun ! Sorely sighing in bitterness of 
soul, I say, when shall my name be the quotation of the wise, and 
my countenance be the delight of the godly, like the illustrious 
lord of Laggan's many hills]* As for him, his works are perfect 
never did the pen of calumny blur the fair page of his reputation, 
nor the bolt of hatred fly at his dwelling. 

Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elphine lamp of my glim- 
rnerous understanding, purged from sensual appetites and gross de- 
sires, shine like the constellation of thy intellectual powers. — As 
for thee, thy thoughts are pure, and thy lips are holy. Never did 
the unhallowed breath of the powers of darkness, and the pleasures 
of darkness, pollute the sacred flame of the sky- descended and 
heaven- bound desires; never did the vapours of impurity stain the 
unclouded serene of thy cerulean imagination. that like thine 
were the tenor of my life, like thine the tenor of my conversation ! 
then should no friend fear for my strength, no enemy rejoice in my 
weakness ! Then should I lie down and rise up, and none to make 
me afraid. — May thy pity and thy prayer be exercised for, thou 
lamp of wisdom and mirror of morality ! thy devoted slave. + 

t T; is strain of irony was excited by a letter of Mr. Nicol's containing good 
advice. 



No. CXXXI. 
TO MR, CUNNINGHAM. 

Zd March, 1792. 
Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, I have not had time 
to write you farther. When I say that I had not time, that, as 

* Mr. Nichol. 



LETTERS. 253 

usual, means, that the three demons, indolence, business, and ennui, 
have so completely shared my hours among them, as notjto leave 
me a five minutes fragment to take up a pen in. 

Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buoying upwards with the re- 
novating year. Now I shall in good earnest take up Thomson's 
songs. I dare say he thinks I have used him unkindly, and 1 must 
own with too much appearance of truth. Apropos, do you know 
the much admired old Highland air called The Sutors Dockter 1 It 
i3 a first-rate favourite of mine, and I have written what I reckon 
one of my best songs to it. I will send it to you as it was sung 
with great applause in some fashionable circles by Major Robert- 
son, of Lade, who wa3 here with his corps. 

There is one coinmisson that I must trouble you with. I lately 
lost a valuable seal, a present from a departed friend, which vexes 
me much. I have gotten one of your Highland pebbles, which I 
fancy would make a very decent one ; and I want to cut my armo- 
rial bearing on it ; wiil you be so obliging as inquire what will be 
the expense of such a business] 1 do not know that my name is 
matriculated, as the heralds call it, at all ; but I have invented 
arms for myself, so you know I shall be chief of the name ; and 
by courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be entitled to supporters. 
These, however, 1 do not intend having en my seal. I am a bit of 
a herald ; and shall give you, secundum artem, my arms. On a 
field, azure, a holly bush, seeded, proper, in base ; a shepherd's 
pipe and crook, saltier- wise, also proper, in chief. On a wreath of 
the colours, a wood-lark perching on a sprig of bay- tree, proper : 
for crest, two mottoes, round the top of the crest, Wood notes wild. 
At the bottom of the shield, in the usual place, Better a wee lush 
than nae Held. By the shepherd's pipe and crook I do not mean 
the nonsense of painters of Arcada ; but a Slock and Horn, and a 
Culb, such as you see at the head ol Allan Ramsay, in Allan's 
quarto edition of the Gentle Shepherd. By the bye, do you know 
Allan ] He must be a man of very great genius. — Why is he not 
more known? — Has he no patrons? or do "Poverty's cold wind 
and crushing rain beat keen and heavy" on him ] I once, and but 
once, got a glance of that noble edition of the noblest pastoral in 
the world, and dear as it was, I mean dear as to my pocket, I would 
have bought it ; but I was told that it was printed and engraved 
for subscribers only. He is the only artist who has hit genuine 
pastoral costume. What, my dear Cunningham, is there in riches, 
that they narrow and harden the heart so? I think were I as rich 
as the sun, I should be as generous as the day; but as I have no 
reason to imagine my soul a nobler one than any other man's, I 
must conclude that wealth imparts a birdlime quality to the 
possessor, at which the man, in his native poverty, would have 
revolted. What has led me to this, is the idea of such merit as 
Mr. Allan possesses, and such riches as a nabob or governor- con- 
tractor possesses, and why they do not form a mutual league. Let 
wealth shelter and cherish unprotected merit, and the gratitude 
and celebrity of that merit will richly repay it. 



254 BURNS* WORKS, 

No. CXXXII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Annan Water Foot, 22nd August, 1792. 
Do not blame me for it, madame — my own conscience, hackneyed 
and weather-beaten as it is, in watching and reproving my vagaries, 
follies, indolence, &c. has continued to blame and punish me suf- 
ficiently. 

Do you think it possible, my dear and honoured friend, that I 
could be so lost to gratitude for many favours : to esteem for much 
worth, and to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now, old acquaint- 
ance, and I hope and am sure of progressive increasing friendship — 
as, for a single day, not to think of you — to ask the Fates what they 
are doing and about to do with my much beloved friend and her 
wide-scattered connexions, and to beg of them to be as kind to you 
and yours as they posssibly can. 

Apropos (though how it is apropos, I have not leisure to explain,) 
do you know that I am almost in love with an acquaintance of 
yours ? — Almost ! said I — I am in love, souse ! over head and ears, 
deep as the most unfathomable abyss of the boundless ocean ; but 
the word, Love, owing to the interminglecloms of the good and the 
bad, the pure and the impure, in this world, being rather an 
equivocal term for expressing one's sentiments and sensations, I 
must do justice to the sacred purity of my attachment. Know then, 
that the heart-struck awe ; the distant humble approach ; the de- 
light we should have in gazing upon and listening to a Messenger of 
Heaven, appearing in all the unspotted purity of his celestial home, 
among the coarse, polluted, far inferior sons of men, to deliver to 
them tidings that make their hearts swim in joy, and their imagi- 
nations soar in transport — such, so delighting, and so pure, were the 
emotions of my soul on meeting the other day with Miss L — B— , 
your neighbour at M . Mr. B. with his two daughters, accom- 
panied by Mr. H. of G. passing through Dumfries a few days ago, 
on their way to England, did me the honour of calling on me ; on 
which I took my horse (though God knows I could ill spare the 
time,) and accompanied them fourteen or fifteen miles, and dined 
and spent the day with them. 'Twas about nine, I think, when I 
left them ; and riding home, I composed the following ballad, of 
which you will probably think that you have a dear bargain, as it 
will cost you another groat of postage. You must know that there 
is an old ballad beginning with 

* My bonnie Lizzie Baillie 
I'll row thee in my pladie,' 

So I parodied it as follows, which is literally the first copy, " un- 
anointed unannealed," as Halet says.— See the poem. 

So much for ballads. I regret that you are gone to the east coun- 
try, as I am to be in Ayrshire in about a fortnight. This world of 
ours, notwithstanding it has many good things in it, yet it has ever 
had this curse, that two or three people who would be the happier 
the oftener they met together, are almost without exception, always 
so placed as never to meet but once or twice a-year, which, con- 
sidering the few years of a man's life, is a very great " evil under 
•m/' wbioh i do not iccollcefc that Solomon has mentioned 



LETTERS, 255 

his catalogue of the miseries of man. I hope and believe that there 

is a state of existence beyond the grave, where the worthy of this 

life will renew their former intimacies, with this endearing addition, 

that " we meet to part no more." 

• ••••• 

1 Tell us, ye dead, 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly he !' 

A thousand times have I made this apostrophe to the departed sons 
of men, but not one of them has ever thought fit to answer the 
question. " that some courteous ghost would blab it out !" — but 
it cannot be ; you and I, my friend, may make the experiment by 
ourselves and for ourselves. However, I am so convinced that an 
unshaken faith in the doctrines of religion is not only neccessary, by 
making us happier men, that I shall take every care that your little 
god-son, and every little creature that shall call me father, shall be 
taught them. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at this wild place of 
the world, in the intervals of my labour of discharging a vessel of 
rum from Antigua, 

No. CXXXIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries, 10th September, 1792. 
No ! I will not attempt an apology. — Amid all my hurry of busi- 
ness, grinding the face of the publican and the sinner on the 
merciless wheels of the excise ; making ballads, and then drinking, 
and singing them; and, over and above all, the correcting the 
press work of two different publications ; still, still I might have 
stolen five minutes to dedicate to one of the first of my friends and 
fellow- creatures. I might have done, as I do at present, snatched 
an hour near " witching time of night" — and scrawled a page or 
two. I might have congratulated my friend on his marriage ; or I 
might have thanked the Caledonian archers for the honour they 
have done (though to do myself justice, I intended to have done 
both in rhyme, else I had done both long ere now.) Well, then, here is 
to your good health ! for you must know, I have set a nipperkin of 
toddy by me, just by way of spell, to keep away the meikle horned 
Deil, or any of his subaltern imps who may be on their nightly 
rounds. 

But what shall I write to you ] — " The voice said cry," and I said 
" what shall I cry ]"— 0, thou spirit ! whatever thou art, or when- 
ever thou makest thyself visible ! be thou a bogle by the eerie 
side of an auld thorn, in the dreary glen through which the herd 
callan maun bicker in his gloamin route frae the faulde ! Be thou 
a brownie, set, at dead of night, to thy task by the blazing ingle, 
or in the solitary barn where the repercussions of thy iron flail 
half affright thyself, a3 thou performest the work of twenty of the 
sons of men, ere the cock-crowing summon thee to thy ample cog 
of substantial brose — Be thou a kelpie, haunting the ford or ferry, 
in the starless night, mixing thy laughing yell with the howling of 
the storm, and the roaring of the flood, as thou viewest the perils 
and miseries of man on the foundering horse* or in the fumbling 



25b BURNS' WORKS. 

boat ! — Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paying thy nocturnal visits to 
the hoary ruins of decayed grandeur ; or performing thy mystic 
rites in the shadow of thy time-worn church, while the moon looks, 
without a cloud, on the silent, ghastly dwellings of the dead around 
thee ; or taking thy stand by the bedside of the villain, or the 
murderer, pourtraying on his dreaming fancy, pictures, dreadful as 
the horrors of unveiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of incensed 
Diety ! — Come, thou spirit, but not in those horrid forms; come 
with the. milder, gentle, easy inspirations, which thou breathest 
round the wig of a prating advocate, or the tete of a tea-sipping 
gossip, while their tongues run at the light horse gallop of clishma- 
claver for ever and ever— come and assist a poor devil who is quite 
jaded in the attempt to share half an idea among half a hundred 
words ; to fill up four quarto pages, while he has not got one single 
sentence of recollection, information, or remark worth putting pen 
to paper for. 

I feel, I feel the presence of supernatural assistance ! circled in 
the embrace of my elbow chair, my breast labours, like the bloated 
Sybil on her three-footed stool, and like her too, labours with Is on- 
sense. — Nonsense, auspicious name ! Tutor, friend, and finger-post 
in the mystic mazes of law ; the cadaverous paths of physic ; and 
particularly in the sightless soarings of school divinity, who leav- 
ing Common Sense confounded at his strength of pinion, Reason 
delirious with eying his giddy flight, and Truth creeping back into 
the bottom of her well, cursing the hour that ever she offered her 
scorned alliance to the wizard power of Theologic Vision — raves 
abroad on all the winds. i( On earth Discord ! a gloomy Heaven 
above, opening her jealous gates to the nineteen thousandth part 
of the tithe of mankind ! and below, an inescapable and inexorable 
hell, expanding its leviathan j a ^vs for the vast residue of mortals !" 
— doctrine ! comfortable and healing to the weary, wounded soul 
of a man ! Ye sons and daughters of affliction, ye paitvres miser- 
able, to whom day brings no pleasure, and night yieids no rest, be 
comforted ! " 'Tis but one to nineteen hundred thousand that your 
situation will mend in this world ;" so, alas ! the experience of the 
poor and the needy too often affirms ; and 'tis nineteen hundred 

thousand to one, by the dogmas of , that you will be damned 

in the world to come ! 

But of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is the most nonsensical ; 
so enough, and more than enough of it. Only, by the bye, will 
yon, or can you tell me, my dear Cunningham, why a sectarian 
turn of mind has always a tendency to narrow and il liberalize the 
heart 1 They are orderly; they may be just; nay, I have known 
them merciful : but. still your children of sanctity move among 
their fellow- creatures with a nostril snuffing putrescence, and a 
foot-spurning tilth, in short, with a conceited dignity that your 

titled • or any other of 

your Scottish lordlings of seven centuries standing, display, when 
they accidentally mix among the many aproned sons of mechanical 
life. 1 remember, in my plough boy days, I could not conceive it 
possible that, a noble lord could be a fool, or a godly man could be 
a knave. — How ignorant are plough-boys ! — Nay, 1 have since dis- 
covered that a godly woman may be a ! — But- hold — Here's t'ye 



LETTERS. 257 

again— this rum is generous Antigua, so a very unfit menstruum 
for scandal. 

Apropos ! how do you like, — I mean really like the married life 1 
Ah, my friend ! matrimony is quite a different thing from what 
your love sick youths and sighing girls take it to be ! But mar- 
riage, we are told, is appointed by God, and I shall never quarrel 
with any of his institution. I am a husband of older standing 
than you, and shall give you my ideas of the conjugal state — (en 
passant, you know I am no Latinist, is not conjugal derived from 
jugum, a yoke)] Well, then, the scale of good-wifeship I divide into 
ten parts. — Goodnature, four; Good Sense, two; Wit, one; Per- 
sonal charms, viz., a sweet face, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, graceful 
carriage, (I would add a fine waist, too, but that is so soon spoilt, 
you know), all these, one ; as for the other qualities belonging to, 
or attending on, a wife, such as Fortune, Connexions, Education, 
(I mean Education extraordinary,) Family Blood, &c, divide the 
two remaining degrees among them as you please ; only, remember 
that all these minor properties must be expressed by fractions, for 
there is not any one of them, in the aforesaid scale, entitled to the 
dignity of an integer. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries — how I lately met with 

Miss L B , the most beautiful, elegant woman in the 

world — how I accompanied her and her father's family fifteen miles 
on their journey, out of pure devotion, to admire the loveliness of 
the works of God, in such an unequalled display of them — how, in 
galloping home at night, I made a ballad on her, of which these 
two stanzas make a part — 

Thou, bonnie L , art a queen, 

Thy subjects we before thee ; 
Thou, bonnie L ,art divine, 

Ti>e hearts o' men adore thee. 

The very Dei! he could na scaith 

Whatever wad belang thee! 
He'd look into thy bonnie face 

And say, " I canna wrang thee.*' 

— behold all these things are written in the chronicles of my ima- 
gination, and shall be read by thee, my dear friend, and by thy be- 
loved spouse, my other dear friend, at a more convenient season. 

Now, to thee, and to thy before-designed fros(???i-companion, be 
given the precious things brought forth by the sun, and the precious 
things brought forth by the moon, and the benignest influence of the 
stars, and the living streams which flow from the fountains of life, 
and by the tree of life, for ever and ever ! Amen ! 



No. CXXXIV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP.^ 

Dumfries, 2ith Se2)tembcr } 1792. 
I have this moment, my dear madam, yours of the twenty- 
third. All your other kind reproaches, your news, &c. are out 
of my head when I read and think on Mrs H — — 's situation. 
Good God ! a heart- wounded helpless young woman — in a strange, 
foreign land and that land convulsed with every horror, that can 
harrow the human feelings—sick— looking, longing for a comforter 



258 BURNS* WORKS. 

but finding none — a mother's feelings, too — but it is too much : he 
who wounded (he only can) may He heal I* 

• •••••• 

I wish the farmer great joy of his new acquisition to his family. 
I cannot say that I give him joy of his 
life as a farmer. 'Tis, as a farmer paying a dear, unconscionable 
rent, a cursed life / As to a laird farming his own property ; sowing 
his own corn in hope; and reaping it, in spite of brittle weather, 
in gladness ; knowing that none can say unto him, " what dost 
thou? 1 ' — fattening his herds; shearing his flocks; rejoicing at 
Christmas ; and begetting sons and daughters, until he be the 
venerated, grey-haired leader of a little tribe — 'tis a heavenly life ! 
but Devil take the life of reaping the fruits that another must eat. 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as to seeing me when I 

make my Ayrshire visit. I cannot leave Mrs B , until her nine 

months' race is run, which may perhaps be in three or four weeks. 
She, too, seems determined to make me the patriachal leader of a 
band. However, if Heaven will be so obliging as let me have them 
on the proportion of three boys to one girl, I shall be so much the 
more pleased. I hope, if I am spared with them, to show a set of 
boys that will do honour to my cares and name; but I am not equal 
to the task of rearing girls. Besides, I am poor ; a girl should always 
have a fortune. Apropos, your little god-son is thriving charmingly, 
but is a very devil. He, though two years younger, has completely 
mastered his brother. Robert is indeed the mildest, gentlest 
creature I never saw. He has a most surprising memory, and is 
quite the pride of his school-master. 

You know how readily we get into prattle upon a subject dear to 
our heart ; you can excuse it. God bless you and yours ! 



No. CXXXY. 
TO MRS DITNLOP. 

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF MRS. H , HER 

DAUGHTER. 

I had been from home, and did not receive your letter until my 
return the other day. What shall I say to comfort you, my much- 
valued, much-afilicted friend ! I can but grieve with you; consola- 
tion I have none to offer except that which religion holds out to the 
children of affliction — children of affliction! — how just the expres- 
sion ! and like every other family, they have matters among them 
which they hear, see, and feel in a serious, all- important manner, 
of which the world has not, nor cares to have, any idea .The world 
looks indifferently on, makes the passing remark, and proceeds to 
the next novel occurrence. 

Alas, madam ! who would wish for many years ? What is it but 
to drag on existence until our joys gradually expire and leave us in 
a night of misery ; like the gloom which blots out the stars one by 
one, from the face of night, and leaves us, without a ray of comfort 
in the howling waste ! 

* This much-lamented lady was gone to the south of France with her infaiut 
son, where she died soon after. 



LETTERS. 25$ 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. You shall soon hear from 
me again. 



No. CXXXYI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, Gth December, 1792. 
I shall be in Ayrshire, I think, next week ; and, if at all possible, 
I shall certainly, my much esteemed friend, have the pleasure of 
visiting at Dunlop- house. 

Alas, madam ! how seldom do we meet in this world, that we 
have reason to congratulate ourselves on accessions of happiness ! 
I have not passed half the ordinary term of an old man's life, and 
yet I scarcely look over the obituary of a newspaper, that I do not 
see some names that I have known, and which I, and other ac- 
quaintances, little thought to meet with there so soon. Every other 
instance of the mortality of our kind, makes us cast an anxiou3 
look into the dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder with ap- 
prehensions for our own fate. But of how different an importance 
are the lives of different individuals 1 JS r ay, of what importance is 
one period of the same life, more than another 1 A few years ago, 
I could have lain down in the dust, " careless of the voice of the 
morning ;" and now not a few, and these most helpless individuals, 
would, on losing me and my exertions, lose both my "staff and 
shield." By the way, these helpless ones have lately got an addi- 
tion, Mrs. B. having given me a line girl since I wrote you. There 
is a charming passage in Thomson's Edward and Eleanora, 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer — 
Or what need he regard his single woes ?" &c. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I shall give you another 
from the same piece, peculiarly, alas ! too peculiarly apposite, my 
dear madam, to your present frame of mind : 

'• Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him, 
With his fair weather virtue, that exults 
Glad o'er the summer main 1 the tempest comes, 
The rough winds rage aloud; when from the helm 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies, 
Lamenting — Heavens ! if privileged from trial, 
How cheap a thing vt ere virtue 1" 

I do not remember to have heard you mention Thomson's 
dramas. I pick up favourite quotations, and store them in my 
mind as ready armour, offensive, or defensive, amid the struggle of 
this turbulent existence. Of these is one, a very favourite one, 
from his Alfred, 

" Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 
And offices of life ; to life itself, 
With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose.' 1 

Probably they have quoted some of these to you formerly, as in 
deed when I write from the heart, 1 am apt to be guilty of such re 
petitions. The compass of the heart, in the musical style of expres 
sion, is much more bounded than that of the imagination ; so the 
notes of the former are extremely apt to run into one another ; but 
in return for the paucity of its compass, its few notes are mucji 
more sweet. I must still give you another quotation, which I am 



260 BURNS' WORKS. 

almost sure I have given you before, but I cannot resist the temp- 
tation. The subject is religion — speaking of its importance to 
mankind, the author says, 

" 'lis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright," &c. 

I see you are in for double postage, so I shall e'en scribble out 
t'other sheet. We in this country here have many alarms of the 
reforming, or rather the republican spirit of your part of the king- 
dom. Indeed we are a good deal in commotion ourselves. For me, 
I am a placeman, you know ; a very humble one indeed, Heaven 
knows, but still so much so as to gag me. What my private scnti 
inents are, you will find out without an interpreter. 

I have taken up the subject in another view; and the other day, 
for a pretty actress's benefit- night, I wrote an address, which I will 
give you on the other page, called The Rights of Woman. 

THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

An Occasional Address spoken by Miss Foktenelle on her benefit 

night. 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings, 
While Quacks of state must each produce his plan, 
And even children lisp the Righ s <.f Man ; 
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 

First, in the sexes' intermix'd connexion, 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blast of fate, 
Sunk to the earth, defaced its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. — 

Our second Right's — but needless here is caution, 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion, 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum. — 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude men had naughty ways ; 
Would swagger, >wear, get drunk, kick, up a riot, 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet. — 
Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are fled : 
Now, well-bred men— and you are all well-bred — 
M( -st jus ly think (a; d we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our Nearest, 
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration 
In that blest sphere alone wre live and move; 
There (aste that life of life — immortal love — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
; Gainst such an ho t what flinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms \ 

T : ut truce with kings, and true- with constitutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions, 
Let majes y your first attcn ion summon. 
Ah! ca ira ! xnE Majesty of WoMiu ! 

I shall have the honour of receiving your criticisms in perbon at 
Dunlop. 




LETTERS. 261 

No. CXXXYI. 

TO MISS B — — , OF YORK. 

mu>am, 21 st March, 1793. 

Among many things for which I envy those hale, long-lived old fel- 
lows before the flood, is this in particular, that when they met with 
any body after their own heart, they had a charming long prospect 
of many, many happy meetings with them in after-life. 

Now, in this short, stormy winter day of our fleeting existence, 
when you now and then, in the Chapter of Accidents, meet an in- 
dividual whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there are all the 
probabilities against you, that yon shall never meet with that 
valued character more. On the other hand, brief as the miserable 
being is, it is none of the least of the miseries belonging to it, that 
if there is any miscreant whom you hate, or creature whom you 
despise, the ill run of the chances shall be ?o against you, that in 
the overtakings, turnings, and jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky 
corner, eternally comes the wretch upon you, and will not allow 
your indignation or contempt a moment's repose. As I am a sturdy 
believer in the powers of darkness, I take those to be the doings of 
that old author of mischief, the devil. It is well known that he 
has some kind of short-hand way of taking down our thoughts, and 
I make no doubt that he is perfectly acquainted with my sentiments 

respecting Miss B ; how T much I admired her abilities and 

valued her worth, and how very fortunate I thought myself in her 
acquaintance. For this last reason, my dear madam, I must enter- 
tain no hopes of the very great pleasure of meeting with you again. 

Miss H" tells me that she is sending a packet to you, and 1 

beg leave to send you the inclosed sonnet, though to tell you the 
real truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may have the op- 
portunity of declaring with how much respectful esteem I have the 
honour to be, &c. 



No. CXXXYIII. 
TO MISS C 



madam, August, 1793. 

Some rather unlooked-for accidents have prevented me doing my- 
self the honour of a second visit to Arbiegland, as I was so hospi- 
tably invited, and so positively meant to have done. — However, I still 
hope to have that pleasure before the busy months of harvest 
begin. 

1 inclose you two of my late pieces, as some kind return for the 
pleasure I have received in perusing a certain MS. volume of poems 
in the possession of Captain Riddel. To repay one with an old song, 
is a proverb, whose force you, madam, I know will not allow. 
What is said of illustrious descent is, I believe, equally true of a 
talent for poetry ; none ever despised it who had pretensions to it. 

The fates and characters of the rhyming tribe often employ my 
thoughts when I am disposed to be melancholy. There is not, 
among all the martyrologies that ever were penned, so rueful a nar- 
rative as the lives of the poets. — In the comparative view of wretches, 
the criterion is not what they are doomed to suffer, but how 



2G2 BURKS* WORKS. 

they are formed to bear. Take a being of our kind, give him a 
stronger imagination and a more delicate sensibility, which between. 
them will ever engender a more ungovernable set of passions than, 
are the usual lot of man; implant in him an irresistible impulse to 
some idle vagary, such as, arranging wild flowers in fantastical 
nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to his haunt by his chirping song, 
watching the frisks of the little minnows in the sunny pool, or 
hunting after the intrigues of butterflies — in short, send him adrift 
after some pursuit which shall eternally mislead him from the path 
of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish than any man liv- 
ing, for the pleasures that lucre can purchase ; lastly, till up the 
measure of his woes by bestowing on him a spurning sense of his 
own dignity, and you have created a wight nearly as miserable as a 
poet. To you, madam, I need not recount the fairy pleasures the 
muse bestows to counterbalance this catalogue of evils. Bewitch- 
ing poetry is like bewitching woman ; she has in all ages been ac- 
cused of misleading mankind from the counsels of wisdom and the 
paths of prudence, involving them in difficulties, baiting them with 
poverty, branding them with infamy, and plunging them in the 
whirling vortex of ruin ; yet where is the man but must own that 
all happiness on earth is not worthy the name -that even the holy 
hermit's solitary prospect of paradisaical bliss is but the glitter of a 
northern sun, rising over a frozen region, compared with the many 
pleasures, the nameless raptures that wo owe to the lovely Queen 
of the heart of Man ! 



No. CXXXIX. 
TO JOHN M'MUKDO, ESQ. 

sir, December, 1703. 

It is said that we take the greatest liberties with our greatest 
friends, and I pay myself a very high compliment in the manner in 
which I am going to apply the remark. I have owed you money 
longer than ever I owed it to any man. — Here is Ker's account, and 
here are six guineas ; and now, I don't owe a shilling to man— or 
woman either. But for these damned dirty, dog's ear'd like pages,* 
I had done myself the honour to have waited on you long ago. In- 
dependent of the obligations your hospitality has laid me under, the 
consciousness of your superiority in the rank of man and gentleman, 
of itrelf was fully as much a3 I could ever make head against ; but 
to owe you money too, was more than I could face. 

I think I once mentioned something of a collection of Scotch 
songs I have for some years been making : I send you a perusal of 
what I have got together. I could not conveniently spare them 
above five or six days, and five or six glances of them will probably 
more than suffice you. A very few of them are my own. When 
you are tired of them, please leave them with Mr. Clint, of the 
King's Arms. There is not another copy of the collection in the 
world ; and I shall be sorry that any unfortunate negligence should 
deprive me of what has cost me a good deal of pains. 

* Scottish bank-notes. 



LETTERS. 263 

No. CXL. 
TO MRS. R , 

WHO WAS TO BESPEAK A PLAY ONE EVENING AT THE DUMFRIES 

THEATRE. 

I am thinking to send my Address to some periodical publication, 
but it has not got your sanction, so pray look over it. 

As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of you, my dear madam, 
let me beg of you to give us, The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret ; 
to which please add, The Spoiled Child — you will highly oblige 
me by so doing. 

Ah, what an enviable creature you are ! There now, this cursed 
gloomy blue-devil day, you are going to a party of choice spirits — 

" To play the shapes 
Of frolic fancy, and incesant form 
Those rapid pictures, that assembled train 
Of fleet ideas, never join'd before, 
Where lively wit excites to gay surprise ; 
Or folly, painting humour, grave himself, 
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve. 

But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, do also remember 
to weep with them that weep, and pity your melancholy friend. 



No. CXLI. 
TO A LADY. 

IN FAVOUR OF A PLAIEtt'S BENEFIT. 
MADAM, 

You were so very good as to promise to honour my friend with your 
presence on his benefit night. That night is fixed for Friday first : 
the play a most instructing one ! The way to keep Him. 1 have the plea- 
sure to know Mr. G. well. His merit as an actor is generally ac- 
knowledged. He has a genius and worth which would do honour to 
patronage : he is a poor and modest man ; claims which, from their 
very silence, have the more forcible power on the generous heart. 
Alas ! for pity ! that, from the indolence of those who have the 
good things of this life in gift, too often does brazen-fronted impor- 
tunity snatch that boon, the rightful due of retiring, humble want ! 
Of all the qualities we assign to the author and director of Nature, 
by far the mo3t enviable is— to be able " To wipe away all tears 
from all eyes." what insignificant, sordid wretches are they, 
however chance may have loaded them with wealth, who go to their 
graves, to their magnificent mausoleums, with hardly the conscious- 
ness of having made one poor honest heart happy ! 

But I crave your pardon, madam ; I came to beg, not to preach. 



No. CXL1I. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER. 

TO MR. — -. 

1794. 
I am extremely obliged to you for your kind mention of my inter- 
ests, in a letter which Mr. S showed me. At present, my 

situation in life must be in a great measure stationary, at least for 
two or three years. The statement is this— I am on the supervisor* 



264 BURNS 5 WORKS. 

list : and as we come on there by precedency, in two or three years 
I stall be at the head of that list, and be appointed of course — then 
a Friend might be of service to me in getting me into a place of 
the kingdom which I like. A supervisor's income varies from about 
one hundred and twenty to two hundred ay ear; but the business 
is an incessant drudgery, and would be nearly a complete bar to every 
species of literary pursuit. The moment I am appointed supervi- 
sor in the common routine, I may be nominated on the collector's 
list ; and this is always a business purely of political patronage. A 
collectorship varies much, from better than two hundred a year to 
near a thousand. They also come forward by precedency on the 
list, and have, besides a handsome income, a life of complete lei- 
sure. A life of literary leisure, with a decent competence, is the 
summit of my wishes. It would be the prudish affectation of silly 
pride in me, to say that I do not need or would not be indebted to 
a political friend ; at the same time, sir, I by no means lay my af- 
fairs before you thus, too hook my dependent situation on your be- 
nevolence. If, in my progress of life, an opening should occur where 
the good offices of a gentleman of your public character and poli- 
tical consequence might bring me forward, I will petition your 
goodness with the same frankness and sincerity as 1 now do myself 
the honour to subscribe myself, &c. 



]S T o. CXL1I1. 

TO MRS. —. 

DEAR MADAM, 

I mkaxt to have called on you yesternight, but as I edged up to your 
box-door, the first object which greeted my view, was one of those 
lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another dragon guarding th 
Hesperian fruit. On the conditions and capitulations you so 
obligingly offer, I shall certainly make my weather-beaten rustic 
phiz a part of your box-furniture on Tuesday, when we may ar- 
range the business of the visit. 



cv 



.1. 

e 



Among the profusion of idle compliments which insidious craft, 
or unmeaning folly incessantly offers at your shrine — a shrine, how 
far exalted above such adoration — permit me, were it but for rarity's 
sake, to pay you the honest tribute of my heart, and an independ- 
ent mind ; and to assure, you, that I am, thou most amiable, and 
most accomplished of thy sex, with the most respectful esteem, and 
regard, thine, kc. 



No. CXLIY. 

TO THE SAME 

I will wait on you, my ever- valued friend, but whether in the 
morning I am not sure. Sunday closes a period of our curst re- 
venue business, and may probably keep me employed with my pen 
until noon. Fine employment for a poet's pen ! There is a specie 
of the human genus that I call the gin-horse class ; what enviable 
dogs they are. Round, and round, and round they go, — Mundell's 
ox that drives his cotton mill, is their exact prototype —without an 



LETTERS. 265 

idea beyond their circle : fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and con- 
tented ; while here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d— melange 
of fretfulness aud melancholy ; not enough of the one to rouse me 
to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torpor ; my soul flounc- 
ing and fluttering round her tenement, like a wild finch, caught 
amid the horrors of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am 
persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he 
foretold — •' And behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, 
it shall not prosper ." If my resentment is awakened, it is sure to 
be where it dare not squeak ; and if — 

Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent visitors of 

R. B. 



No. CXLY. 

TO THE SAME. 

I have this moment got the song from S , and I am sorry to see 

that he has spoilt it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I 
lend him any thing again. 

I have sent you Werter, truly happy to have any the smallest 
opportunity of obliging you. 

'Tistrue, madam, I saw you once since I was at W — ; and that once 
froze the very life-blood of my heart. Your reception of me was 
such, that a wretch meeting the eye of his judge, about to pro- 
nounce sentence of death on him, could only have envied my feel- 
ings and situation. But I hate the theme, and never more shall 
write or speak on it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, that I can pay Mrs. a higher 

tribute of esteem, and appreciate her amiable worth more truly, 
than any man whom I have seen approach her. 

No. CXLYI. 

TO THE SAME. 

I have often told you, my dear friend, that you had a spice of 
caprice in your composition, and you have as often disavowed it, 
even perhaps while your opinions were, at the moment, irrefragably 
proving it. Could any thing estrange me from a friend such as 
you % — No ! To-morrow I shall have the honour of waiting upon 
you. 

Farewell, thou first of friends, and most accomplished of women; 
even with all thy little caprices ! 



No. CXLYII. 
TO THE SAME. 

1IADAM, 

I return your common-place book. I have perused it with much 
pleasure, and would have continued my criticisms, but as it seems 
the critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures must lose their 
value, 

M 



'266 



BURNS' WORKS. 



If it i3 true that " offences come only from the heart," before 
you I am guiltless.. To admire, esteem, and prize you, as the most 
accomplished of women, and the first of friends — if these are crimes, 
I am the most offending thing alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind complacency of friendly 
confidence, now to find cold neglect, and contemptuous scorn — is a 
wrench that my heart can ill bear. It is, however, some kind of 
miserable good luck ; that while de-haut en-las rigour may depress 
an unoffending wretch to the ground, it has a tendency to rouse a 
stubborn something in his bosom, which though it cannot heal the 
wounds of his soul, is at least an opiate to blunt their poignancy. 

With the profoundest respect for your abilities ; the most sin- 
cere esteem, and ardent regard for your gentle heart and amiable 
manners ; and the most fervent wish and prayer for your welfare, 
peace, and bliss, I have the honour to be, madam, your most de- 
voted humble servant. 



No. CXLVIII. 

TO JOHN SYME, ESQ. 

You know that among other high dignities, you have the honour to 
be my supreme court of critical judicature, from which there is no 
appeal. I inclose you a song which I composed since I saw you, 
and I am going to give you the history of it. Do you know that 
among much that I admire in the characters and manners of those 
great folks whom I have now the honour to call my acquaintances, 

the family, there is nothing charms me more than Mr. O's un- 

concealable attachment to that incomparable woman. Did you ever 
my dear Syme, meet with a man who owed more to the Divine Giver 
of all good things than Mr. 0. 1 A fine fortune ; a pleasing exterior ; 
self-evident amiable dispositions, and ingenious upright mind, and 
that informed too, much beyond the usual run of young fellows of 
his rank and fortune; and to all this, such a woman 1 — but of her 
I shall say nothing at all, in despair of saying any thing adequate : 
in my song, I have endeavoured to do justice to what would be his 
feelings on seeing, in the scene I have drawn, the habitation of his 
Lucy. As I am a good deal pleased with my performance, I in my 

first fervour thought of sending it to Mrs. , but on second 

thoughts, perhaps what I offer as the honest incense of genuine res- 
pect, might from the well-known character of poverty and poetry, 
be construed into some modification or other of that servility which 
my soul abhors.* 



No. CXLIX. 
TO MISS 






MADAM, 

Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity could have made me 
trouble you with this letter. Except my ardent and just esteem 

* The song inclosed was the one beginning with 
" O wat ye wha's in yon town." 



LETTERS. 267 

for your sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment arising in my 
breast, as I put pen to paper to you, is painful. The scenes I have 
past with the friend of my soul, and his amiable connexions ! The 
wrench at my heart to think that he is gone, for ever gone from me, 
never more to meet in the wanderings of a weary world ; and the 
cutting reflection of all, that I had most unfortunately, though most 
undeservedly, lost the confidence of that soul of worth, ere it took 
its flight ! 

These, madam, are sensations of no ordinary anguish. — However, 
you, also, may be offended with some imputed improprieties of 
mine ; sensibility you know I possess, and sincerity none will deny 
me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have been raised against me, i3 
not the business of this letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not 
how to wage. The powers of positive vice I can in some degree cal- 
culate, and against direct malevolence I can be on my guard ; but 
who can estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, or ward off the un- 
thinking mischief of precipitate folly ] 

I have a favour to request of you, madam, and of your sister Mrs. 

, through your means. You know, that, at the wish of my late 

friend, I made a collection of all my trifles in verse which I had 
ever written. They are many of them local, some of them puerile, 
and silly, and all of them unfit for the public eye. As I have some 
little fame at stake, a fame that I trust may live, when the hate of 
those who " watch for my halting," and the contumelious sneer of 
those whom accident has made my superiors, will, with themselves, 
be gone to the regions of oblivion ; 1 am uneasy now for the fate of 
those manuscripts. — Will Mrs. — - have the goodness to destroy 
them or return them to me 1 As a pledge of friendship they were 
bestowed; and that circumstance, indeed, was all their merit. Most 
unhappily for me, that merit they no longer possess, and I hope that 

Mrs. 's goodness, which I well know, and ever will revere, will 

not refuse this favour to a man whom she once held in some degree 
of estimation. 

With the sincerest esteem I have the honour to be, madam, &c. 



No. CL. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

25th February, 1794. 
Canst thou minister to a mind diseased ] Canst thou speak peace 
and rest to a soul tossed on a sea of troubles, without one friendly 
star to guide her course, and dreading that; the next surge may 
overwhelm her 1 ? Canst thou give to a fame, tremblingly alive to 
the tortures of suspense, the stability and hardihood of the rock 
that braves the blast 1 If thou canst not do the least of these, why 
wouldst thou disturb me in my miseries, with thy inquiries after me 1 

For these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. My con- 
stitution and frame were, ab origine t blasted with a deep incurable 
taint of hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of late a num- 



268 burns' works. 

ber of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin of 

these times ; losses which, though trifling, were yet what I 

could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings at times could 
only be envied by a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence that 
dooms it to perdition. 

Are you deep in the language of consolation ] I have exhausted 
in reflection every topic of comfort. A heart at ease would have 
been charmed with my sentiments and reasonings ; but as to myself 
I was like Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel ; he might melt and 
mould the hearts of those around him, but his own kept its native 
incorrigibility. 

Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck 
of misfortune and misery. The one is composed of the different mo- 
difications of a certain noble, stubborn something in man, known by 
the names of courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made 
up of those feelings and sentiments, which, however, the sceptic 
may deny them, or the enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am con- 
vinced, original and component parts of the human soul ; those senses 
of the mind, if 1 may be allowed the expression, which connect us 
with, and link us to, those awful obscure realities — and all-powerful 
and equally beneficient God ; and a world to come, beyond death 
and the grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of 
hope beams on the field ; — the last pours the balm of comfort into 
the wounds which time can never cure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever 
talked on the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at 
it, as the trick of the crafty few, to lead the undiscerning many ; or 
at most as an uncertain obscurity, which mankind can never know 
any thing of, and with which they are fools if they give themselves 
much to do. Nor would I quarrel with a man for his irreligion, 
any more than I would for his want of a musical ear. I would re- 
gret that he was shut out from what, to me and to others were such 
superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this point of view, and 
for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the mind of every child of 
mine with religion. If my son should happen to be a man of feeling, 
sentiment, and taste, 1 shall thus add largely to his enjoyments. 
Let me flatter myself that this sweet little fellow who is now run- 
ning about my desk, will be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing 
heart ; and an imagination, delighted with the painter, and rapt 
with the poet. Let me figure him, wandering out in a sweet even- 
ing, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoying the growing luxuriance 
of the spring ; himself the while in the blooming youth of life. He 
looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to nature's God. 
His soul, by swift, delighting degrees, is wrapt above this sublunary 
sphere, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the 
glorious enthusiasm of Thomson. — 

" These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God— The rolling year 
Is full of thee." 

And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming hymn. 

These are no ideal pleasures; they are real delights, and I ask what 
of the delights among the sons of men are superior, not to say, equal 



LETTERS. 269 

to them 1 And they have this precious, vast addition, that conscious 
virtue stamps them for her own ; and lays hold on them to bring 
herself into the presence of a witnessing, judging, and approving 
God. 



No. CLI. 

To -. 

SUPPOSES HIMSELF TO BE WRITING FROM THE DEAD TO THE LIVING. 
MADAM, 

I dare say this is the first epistle you ever received from this nether 
world. I write you from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of 
the damned. The time and manner of my leaving your earth T do 
not exactly know ; as I took my departure in the heat of a fever of 
intoxication, contracted at your too hospitable mansion ; but on ray 
arrival here, I was fairly tried and .sentenced to endure the purga- 
torial tortures of this infernal confine, for the space of ninety-nine 
years, eleven months, and twenty- nine days ; and all on account of 
the impropriety of my conduct yesternight under your roof. Here 
am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with my aching head reclining 
on a pillow of ever-piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, 
wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name, I think, is Recollection, with 
a whip of scorpions, forbids peace or rest to approach me, and keeps 
anguish eternally awake. Still, madam, if 1 could in any measure 
be reinstated in the good opinion of the fair circle whom my conduct 
last night so much injured, I think it would be an alleviation to my 
torments. For this reason I trouble you with this letter. To the 
men of the company I will make no apology. — Your husband, who 
insisted on my drinking more than 1 chose, has no right to blame 
me ; and the other gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. But to 
you, madam, I have much to apologize. Your good opinion I valued 
as one of the greatest acquisitions I had made on earth, and I was 

truly a beast to forfeit it. There was a Miss I too, a woman of 

fine sense, gentle and unassuming manners — do make, on my part, 

a miserable d — d wretch's best apology to her. A Mrs. G , a 

charming woman, did me the honour to be prejudiced in my favour; 
this makes me hope that I have not outraged her beyond ail forgive- 
ness. — To all the other ladies please present my humblest contrition 
for my conduct, and my petition for their gracious pardon. all 
ye powers of decency and decorum ! whisper to them that my errors, 
though great, were involuntary — that an intoxicated man is the 
vilest of beasts — that it was not in my nature to be brutal to any 
one — that to be rude to a woman, when in my senses, was impossi- 
ble with me — but — 

Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hell-hounds that ever dog 
my steps and bay at my heels, spare me ! spare me ! 

Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition of, madam, your 
humble slave. 



270 BURNS' WORKS. 

No. CLII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

My ©ear fbiend, loth December, 1795. 

As I am in a complete Decemberish humour, gloomy, sullen, stupid, 
as even the deity of Dulness herself could wish, I shall now drawl 
out a heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies, for my late 
silence. Only one I shall mention, because I know you will sym- 
pathize in it : these four months, a sweet little girl, my youngest 
child, has been so ill, that every day, a week or less threatened to 
terminate her existence. There had much need be many pleasures 
annexed to the states of husband and father, for God knows, they 
have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, 
sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. I see a train of help- 
less little folks ; me and my exertions all their stay ; and on what 
a brittle thread does the life of man hang 1 If I am nipt off at the 
command of fate ; even in all the vigour of manhood as I am, such 
things happen every day — gracious God ! what would become of my 
little flock ! 'Tis here that I envy your people of fortune. — A 
father on his death-bed, taking an everlasting leave of his children, 
has indeed woe enough ; but the man of competent fortune leaves 
his sons and daughters independency and friends ; while I — but I 
shall run distracted if I think any longer on the subject ! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I shall sing with the 
old Scots ballad— 

" O that I had ne'er been married, 

I would never had na care , 
Now I've gotten wife and bairns, 

They cry, crowdie, evermair, 

Crowdie ! ance ; crowdie ! twice ; 

Crowdie ! three times in a day : 
An ye crowdie ony mair, 

Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away." 



December 2ith. 

We have had a brilliant theatre here, this season ; only, as all 
other business has, it experiences a stagnation of trade from the 
epidemical complaint of the country, want of cash. I mention our 
theatre merely to lug in an occasional Address, which I wrote for 
the benefit- night of one of the actresses, and which is as follows :— 

ADDRESS. 

Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her benefit-nighty Dec. i, 1795, at the 
Theatre, Dumfries. 

8 till anxious to secure your partial favour, 
And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
5 T would vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better ; 
So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, 
Told him, I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; 
And last, my prologue-business slily hinted, — 



LETTERS. 271 

" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes ; 
" 1 know your bent— these are no laughing times, 
Can you — but Miss, I own I have my fears, 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears — 
With laden sighs, and solemn rounded sentence, 
Rouse from his sluggish clumbers fell Repentance ; 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand 
"Waving on high the desolating brand, 
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land !" 

I could no more— askance the creature eyeing, 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying ? 
I'll laugh, that's poz— nay, more, the world shall know it ; 
And so, your servant— gloomy Master Poet. 

Firm as my creed, sirs, 'tis my fixed belief, 
That Misery's another word for Grief : 
I also think — so may 1 be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd — 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, 
Still under bleak misfortune's blasting eye : 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive— 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 
Laugh in Misfortune's face— the beldam witch ! 
Say, you'll be merry, though you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; 
Measur'st in desperate thought— a rope— thy neck— 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 
Would'st thou be cured, thou silly, moping elf, 
Laugh at her follies— laugh e'en at thysdf : 
Learn to despise those f owns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand specific— 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. — 

• ••••• 

25th, Christmas Morning. 
This, nay mucli-loved friend, is a morning of wishes : accept mine 
— so Heaven hear me as they are sincere ! that blessings may attend 
your steps, and affliction know you not ! In the charming words 
of my favourite author, The Man of Feeling, " May the great spirit 
bear up the weight of thy gray hairs ; and blunt the arrow that 
brings them rest !" 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you like Cowper 1 is not the 
Task a glorious poem 1 The religion of the Tasl; bating in a few 
scraps of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of God and Nature : 
the religion that exalts, that enobles man. Were not you to send 
me your Zeluco in return for mine 1 Tell me how you like my 
marks and notes through the book. I would not give a farthing 
for a book, unless I were at liberty to blot it with my criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, all my letters ; I 
mean those which I first sketched, in a rough draught, and after- 
wards wrote out fair. On looking over some old musty papers, 
which from time to time I had parcelled by, as trash that were 
scarce worth preserving, and which yet, at the same time, I did not 
care to destroy, I discovered many of those rude sketches, and have 
written, and am writing them out, in a bound MS. for my friend's 



272 BURNS* WORKS. 

library. A3 I wrote always to yon the rhapsody of the moment, I 
cannot find a single scroll to you, except one, about the commence- 
ment of our acquaintance. If there were any possible conveyance, 
I would send you a perusal of my book. 






No. CLIII. 
TO MES. DUNLOP, IN LONDON. 

Dumfries, 20^A December, 1795. 
I have been prodigiously disappointed in this London journey of 
yours. In the first place, when your last to me reached Dumfries, 
I was in the country, and did not return until too late to answer 
your letter ; in the next place, I thought you would certainly take 
this route ; and now I know not what is become of you, or whe- 
ther this may reach you at all. God grant that it may find you 
and yours in prospering health and good spirits. Do let me hear 
from you the soonest possible. 

As I hope to get a frank from my friend Captain Miller, I shall, 
every leisure hour, take up the pen, and gossip away whatever 
comes first, prose or poesy, sermon or song. In this last article, I 
have abounded of late. I have often mentioned to you a superb 
publication of Scottish songs which is making its appearance in 
your great metropolis, and where I have the honour to preside over 
the Scottish verse, as no less a personage than Peter Pindar does 
over the English. I wrote the following for a favourite air. 



December, 29. 
Since I began this letter I have been appointed to act in capacity 
as supervisor here, and I assure you, what with the load of busi- 
ness, and what with that business being new to me, I could scarcely 
have commanded ten minutes to have spoken to you, had you been 
in town, much less to have written you an epistle. This appoint- 
ment is only temporary, and during the illness of the present in- 
cumbent ; but I look forward to an early period when I shall be 
appointed in full form : a consummation devoutly to be wished ! 
My political sins seem to be forgiven me. 



This is the season (New-year's- day is now my date) of wishing ! and 
mine are most fervently offered up for you ! May life to you be a 
positive blessing while it lasts, for your own sake ; and that it may 
yet be greatly prolonged, is my wish for my own sake, and for the 
sake of the rest of your friends ! What a transient business is 
life ! Very lately I was a boy ; but t'other day I was a young man; 
and I already begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of 
old age coming fast o'er my frame. With all my follies of youth, 
and, 1 fear, a few vices of manhood, still I congratulate myself on 
having had, in early days, religion strongly impressed on my mind. 
I have nothing to say to any one as to which sect he belongs to, or 
what creed he believes ; but I look on the man who is firmly per 
suaded of infinite wisdom and goodness, superintending and direct 
ing every circumstance that can happen in his lot — I felicitat 



LETTERS. 273 

Such a man as having a solid foundation for his mental enjoyment ; 
a firm prop and sure stay, in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and 
distress ; and a never-failing anchor of hope, when he looks beyond 
the grave. 

January, 12. 
You will have seen our worthy and ingenious friend, the Doctor, 
long ero this. I hope he is well, and beg to be remembered to 
him. I have just been reading over again, 1 dare say for the hun- 
dred and fiftieth time, his View of Society and Manners and still I 
read it with delight. His humour is perfectly original — it is nei- 
ther the humour of Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor of any 
body but Dr. Moore. By the bye, you have deprived me of Zeluvo ; 
remember that, when you are disposed to rake up the sins of my 
neglect from among the ashes of laziness. 

He has paid me a pretty compliment, by quoting me in his last 
publication.* 



No. CLIV 
TO MRS. 



20&& January, 1796. 

I cannot express my gratitude to you for allowing me a longer pe- 
rusal of Anacharsis. In fact, I never met with a book that be- 
witched me so much ; and 1, as a member of the library, must 
warmly feel the obligations you have laid me under. Indeed, to me 
the obligation is stronger than to any other individual of our so- 
ciety , as Anacharsis is an indispensable desideratum to a son of the 
muses. 

The health you wished me in your morning's card, is, I think, 
flown from me for ever. I have not been able to leave my bed to- 
day, till about an hour ago. These wickedly unlucky advertise- 
tisements I lent (I did wrong) to a friend, and I am ill able to go 
in quest of h im. 

The muses have not quite forsaken me. The following detached 
stanzas 1 intend to interweave in some disastrous tale of a shep- 
herd. 



No. CLY. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

§\st January! 1796. 

These many months you have been two packets in my debt — what 
^in of ignorance I have committed against so highly valued a 

* Ed.vard. 
M 5 



274 BUENS WORKS 

friend I am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas ! madam, ill can I af- 
ford at this time, to be deprived of any of the small remnant of 
my pleasures. I have lately drunk deep of the cup of affliction. — 
The autumn robbed me of my only daughter and darling child, and 
that at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power 
to pay the last duties to her. I had scarcely begun to recover 
from the shock, when I became myself the victim of a most severe 
rheumatic fever, and long the die spun doubtful, until after many 
weeks of a sick-bed, it seems to have turned up life, and I am be- 
ginning to crawl across my room, and once indeed have been before 
my own door in the street. 

When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 

Affliction purifies the visual ray, 
Religion haiis the drear, the untried night, 

That shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful day. 



No. CLVL 
TO MISS R — 



WHO HAD DESIRED HIM TO GO TO THE BIRTH-DAY ASSEMBLY ON THAT 
DAY TO 8HOW HIS LOYALTY. 

4th June, 1796/ 

I am in such miserable health as to be utterly incapable of showing 
my loyalty in any way. Racked as I am with rheumatisms, I meet 
every face with a greeting, like that of Balak to Balaam — " Come 
curse me Jacob, and defy me Israel !" So say I — Come curse me 
that east wind ; and come defy me the north ! Would you have 
me, in such circumstances, to copy you out a love song ] 

I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I will not be at the ball. 
— Why should 11" man delights me not, nor woman either." Can 
you supply me with the song, Let 2is all be unhappy together 1 — do if 
you can, and oblige le pauvre miserable. 

R. B. 



No. CLYII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow, Sea- Bathing Quarters, 7th July> 1796. 

MY DEAR CUNNINGHAM, 

I received yours here this moment, and am highly flattered with 
the approbation of the literary circle you mention ; a literary circle 
inferior to none in the two kingdoms. Alas ! my friend, I fear 
the voice of the bard will soon be heard among you no more ? For 
these eight or ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bed fast 
and sometimes not ; but these last three months I have been tor- 
tured w'th an excruciating rheumatism, which has reduced me to 



LETTERS 



275 



nearly the last stage. You actually would not know me if you saw 
me. Pale, emaciated, and so feeble, as occasionally to need help 
from my chair — my spirits fled ! fled ! — but I can no more on the 
subject— only the medical folks tell me that my last and only 
chance is bathing and country quarters, and riding. The deuce of 
the matter is this ; when an exciseman is off duty, his salary is re- 
duced to £35 instead of £50. — What way, in the name of thrift, 
shall I maintain myself and keep a horse in country quarters— with 
a wife and five children at home, on £35 ? I mention this, because 
I had intended to beg your utmost interest, and that of all the 
friends you can muster, to move our Commissioners of Excise to 
grant me the full salary. I dare say you know them all personally. 
If they do not grant it me. I must lay my account with an exit 
truly en poete — if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs ; the other my memory does not 
serve me with, and I have no copy here ; but I shall be at home 
soon, when I will send it you. Apropos to being at home, Mrs. 
Burns threatens in a week or two to add one more to my paternal 
charge, which, if of the right gender, 1 intend shall be introduced 
to the respectable designation of Alexander Cunningham Burns; 
my last was James Glencaim : so you can have no objection to the 
company of nobility. Farewell. 



No. CLVIII. 

TO MRS. BURNS. 



Bra w, TJc urs da y. 



MY DEAREST LOVE, 

I delayed writing until I could tell you what effect sea-bathing 
was likely to produce. It would be injustice to deny that it has 
eased my pains, and I think has strengthened me ; but my appetite 
is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish can I swallow ; porridge 
and milk are the only things I can taste. 1 am very happy to hear, 
by Miss Jesse Lewars, that you are well. My very best and kindest 
compliments to her and all the children. I will see you on Sun- 
day. Your affectionate husband, R. B. 



No. CLIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOR. 

madam, 12th July, 1796. 

I have written to you so often, without receiving any answer, that 
I would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which I 
am. An illness which has long hung about me, in all probability 
will speedily send me beyond that o ourne whence no traveller returns. 
Your friendship, with which you honoured me, was a friendship 
dearest to my soul. Your conversation, and especially your corres- 
pondence, were at once highly entertaining and instructive. With 
what pleasure did I use to break up the seal ! The remembrance 
yet adds one pulse more to my palpitating heart, Farewell ! ! ! 

R> B, 



276 burns' works. 

The above is supposed to be the last production of Eobert Bdres 
who died on the 21st of the month, nine days afterwards. He 
had, however, the pleasure of receiving a satisfactory explanation 
of his friend's silence, and an assurance of the continuance of her 
friendship to his widow and children ; an assurance that has been 
amply fulfilled. 

It is probable that the greater part of her letters to him were 
destroyed by our bard about the time that this last was written, -- 
He did not foresee that his own letters to her were to appear in 
print, nor conceive the disappointment that will be felt, that a few 
of this excellent lady's have not served to enrich and adorn the col- 
lection. 



THE POEMS 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS. 



TO THE 

NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN 

OP THE 

CALEDONIAN HUNT. 



Mr Lords and Gentlemen, 

A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition 
is to sing in his Country's service — where shall he so properly look 
for patronage as to the illustrious names of his native Land ; those 
who bear the honours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors ? 
The Poetic Genius of my Country found me, as the prophetic bard 
Elijah did Elisha — at the plough ; and threw her inspiring mantle 
over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes 
and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue; I tuned 
my wild, artless notes, as she inspired — She whispered me to come 
to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, and lay my Songs under 
your honoured protection : I now obey her dictates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, 
my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank 
you for past favours; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted 
learning, that honest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present 
this Address with the venal soul of a servile Author, looking for a 
continuation of those favours : 1 was bred to the Plough, and am 
independent. I come to claim the Scottish name with you, my 
illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell the world that I glory in the 
title. I come to congratulate my Country, that the blood of her 
ancient heroe3 still runs uncontaminated ; and that from your cou- 
rage, knowledge, and public spirit, she may expect protection, 
wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer my warm- 
est wishes to the Great Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the 
Universe, for your welfare and happiness. 

When you go forth to awaken the Echoes, in the ancient and fa- 
vourite amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of 
your party; and may Social Joy await your return : when harassed 
in courts or camps with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, 
may the honest consciousness of injured worth attend your return 
to your native Seats ; and may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling 
welcome, meet you at your gates ! May corruption shrink at your 
kindling indignant glance; and may tyranny in the Ruler, and li- 
centiousness in the People, equally find you an inexorable foe ! 
I have the honour to be, 

With the eincerest gratitude, 
and highest respect, 

My Lords and Gentlemen, 
Your most devoted humble servant, 

»--i i a ijvra* ROBERT BURNS, 

Edinburgh, April 4, 178/, 



POEMS, 

CHIEFLY SCOTTISH 






THE TWA DOGS: 

A TALE. 

Tvtas iu that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
When wearing thro' the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather d ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name they ca'd him Ccesar, 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar : 
But tho' he was o' high degree, 
The fient a pride na pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin', 
Ev'n with a tinkler gipsey's messin'. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Kae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang,* 
Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke, 
Hi3 honet, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Aye gafcrhim friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swurL 

9 Cuchuliin's dog in Ossiau's Fingal. 



280 BUBNS' WOKKS. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
An' unco pack an' thick .thegither ; 
Wi' social nose whyles snuff 'd and snowkit; 
Whyles mice and modieworts they hookit ; 
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, 
An' worry 'd ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' damn weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression, 
About the lords o' the creation. 

C^SAR. 

I've aften wonder'd honest Luatk, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies lived ava. 

Oar Laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents : 
He rises when he likes himsel' ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse, 
As lang's my tail, whare thro' the steeks, 
The yellow letter' d Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to -e'en its nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
An' tho' the gentry fast are stechin', 
Yet e'vn the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian' : 
An' what poor cot folk pit their painch in, 
1 own its past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't eneugh; 
A cotter howkin in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 
Baring a quarry, and sic like, 
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' we duddie weans, 
An' nought but his han' darg, to keep 
Them right and tight in thack an' rape. 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want of masters, 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer. 
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger ; 
But, how it comes, I never ken'd yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
An' buirdly chiels, an clever hizzies. 
Are bred in sic a way as this j& 



POEMS. 281 



C^SAR. 

But then to see how ye're negleckit, 
How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrepeckit f 
L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor fo'k, 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've notic'd on our Laird's court day 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash ; 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, 
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble ! 

I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches ! 

LUATH. 

They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think ; 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustomed wi' the sight, 
The view o't gi'es them little fright. 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're aye in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans and faithf u' wives ; 
The prattlin things are just their pride 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs; 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, 
Or tell what new taxation's comin', 
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak- fac'd Hallowmas returns, 
They get the jovial, rantin' kirns, 
When rural life, o' every station, 
Unite in common recreation : 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream 
An' sheds a heart- inspiring stream ; 
The luntin' pipe, and sneeshin' mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid will : 



282 



The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, 
The young anes rantin' thro' the house, — 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game i3 now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock 
0' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k, 
Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himself the faster 
In favours wi' some gentle master, 
"Wha aiblins thrang a parliamentm', 
For Britain's guid his saul indentin' — 

GzBSAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it : 
For Britain's guid / — guid faith, I doubt it ! 
Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 
An' saying aye or no's they bid him : 
At operas an' plays parading, 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; 
Or may be, in a frolic daft, 
To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 
To mak a tour, and tak a whirl, 
To learn Ion ton and see the worl\ 

There, at Vienna, or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails ! 
Or by Madrid he takes the rout, 
To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt ; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Wh— re-hunting among groves o' myrtles : 
Then bouses drumly German water, 
To mak himsel' look fair and fatter, 
An' clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love gifts of Carnival signoras. 
For Britain's guid I — for her destruction ! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an* faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ! 

O would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themselves wi' countra sports, 
It wad for every ane be better, 
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter ! 
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ; 
Except for breakin' o' their timmer, 
Or speakin* lightly o' their limmer, 



poems. 283 

Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock, 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master Ccesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ! 
Kae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, 
The very thought o't need na fear them. 

C^SAR. 

L — d, man, were ye but whyles where I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true, they need na starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
An' fill auld age wi gripe3 an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges an' schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They mak enow themselves to vex them. 
An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them ; 
A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acres' till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
A country girl at her wheel, 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel ; 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless ; 
An' eVn their sports, their balls, an' races, 
Their gallopin' through public places. 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches, 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches : 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring, 
Keist day their life is past enduring. 
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup and platie, 
They, sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee larag nights, wi' crabbit leuks 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' woman ; 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this the sun was out o'sight : 
An' darker gloaming brought the night ; 



284 burns' works. 

The bum- clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan : 
When up they gat an shook their lugs, 
Rejoic'd they were na men but clogs ; 
And each took aff his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 

Gie him strong drink, until he wink, 

That's sinking in despair ; 
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, 

That's prest wi' grief an' care ; 

There let him bouse, and deep carouse 

Wi' bumpers flowing o"er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts, 

An' minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon's Pboverbs. xxxi, G, 7. 

Let other poets raise a fracas, 

'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Bacchus, 

An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us, 

An' grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us, 

In glass or jug. 

thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch Drink : 
"Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, 

In glorious faem, 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, 

To sing thy name. 

Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn, 
And Aits set up their awnie horn, 
An' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn, 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn , 

Thou king o' grain ! 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
In souple scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tumblin' in the boiling flood, 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 
There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin', 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin' ; 

But oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin', 

Wi' rattlin' glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair ; 
At's weary toil ; 



POEMS. 

Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy silver weed, 
Wi* gentles thou erects thy head ; 
Yet numbly kind in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine, 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 
But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspir'd, 
When gaping they besiege the tents, 

Are doubly fir'd, 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
sweetly then thou reams the horn in: 
Or rekin' on a New-year morning 

In cog or bicker, 
An" just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, 
An' gusty sucker ! 

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
rare ! to see the fizz an' freath 

I' the lugget caup ! 
Then Burnetvin comes on like death 

At ev'ry chaup. 

Nae mercy then for aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel', 
Brings hard owrehip wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong forehammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin weanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, 
How fuinblin' cuifs their dearies slight, 

Wae worth the name ! 
ISTae howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebours anger at a plea, 
An' just as wud as wud can be, 
How easy can the barley bree 

Cement the quarrel ; 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 

To taste the barrel. 

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wy te her countrymen wi' treason ; 
But mony daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice, 
An' hardly in a winter's season, 

E'er spier her price. 



285 



286 



Wae worth that brandy, burning trash, 
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash ! 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash, 

0' half his days : 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 
To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well ! 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless devils, like mysel' ! 
It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfa' wines to mell, 
Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench, 
An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

O' sour disdain, 
Out owre a glass o* whisky punch 

Wi' honest men. 

Whishj ! soul o' plays an' pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a— s ! 

Thee, Ferintosh ! sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! 
Kow colic grips, and barkin hoast, 

May kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' chartered boast 

Is ta'en awa' ! 

Thae curst horse leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky Stells their prize ! 
Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! 

There, seize the blinkers ! 
An' bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor d — n'd drinkers. 

Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky gill, 
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak a' the rest, 
An' deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



POEMS. 287 

THE AUTHOR'S 

EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* 

TO THE 

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES 

IN THE 

HOUSE OF COMMONS. 



Dearest of Distillation ! last and best 

— How art thou lost !— Parody on Milton. 



Ye Irish Lords, Ye Knights an' Squires, 
Wha represent ourbrughs an* shires, 
And doucely manage our affairs 

In parliament, 
To you a simple Poet's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! 
Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce 
To see her sittin' on her a — 

Low i' the dust, 
An* screichin' out prosaic verse, 

An' like to bru3t ! 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' me's in great affliction, 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On Aquavitce; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction 

An' move their pity. 

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, 
The honest, open, naked truth ; 
Tell him o' mine an Scotland's drouth, 

H s servants humble : 
The muckle devil blaw ye south, 
If ye dissemble ! 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ! 
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb 
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em : 
If honestly they canna come, 

Far better want 'em. 

In gath'ring votes you were na slack ; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, 
An' hum an' haw ; 

* This was written before the act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of session 1786 ; 
for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks, 



288 burns' works. 

But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 
Before them a'. 

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle ; 
Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle ; 
An' d-rnn'd Excisemen in a bussle, 

Seizin' a stell, 
Triumphant crushing like a mussel, 

Or lampit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard Smnggler right behint her, 
An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie Yintner, 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter, 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there, that bears the name of Scot, 
But feels his beart's bluid rising hot, 
To see his poor auld Mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves, 
An' plundered o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ] 

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trode i' the mire out o' sight ! 
But could I like Montgomeries fight, 

Or gab like Boswell, 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, 
An' tie some hose well. 

God bless your Honours, can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet* 
An' no get warmly to your feet, 

An' gar them hear it, 
An' tell them wi' a patriot heat, 

Ye winna bear it ! 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period an' pause, 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran ; 
Thee, aith- detesting, chaste Kilkerran; 
An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, 

The Laird o' Graham ; 
An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auld farran, 
Dundas his name. 

Erslcine, a spunkie Norland billie ; 
True Campbells, Frederick, an' Hay ; 
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie ; 

An' mony ithers, 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithers. 



poems. 289 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleughpettle, 

Ye'll see't or lang, 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, 
Anither sang. 

This while she's been in cank'rous mood, 
Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie !) 
An' now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her Whisky. 

An' L— d if ance they pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
An' durk an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt, 

I' the first she meets ! 

For G — d sake, Sirs ! then speak her fair, 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
An' strive, wi' a' your wit an' lear, 

To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks; 
Bat gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caddie ! 
An' send him to his dicing box 

An' sportin' lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld BoconnoclSs, 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks, 
An' drink hi3 health in auld Nanse TinnocVs 

Nine time3 a week, 
If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He need na fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtiemaxtie queer hotch-potch, 

The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 
An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 
Tho' by the neck she should be strung 

She'll no desert. 



290 burns' works. 

An' now, ye chosen Free- and- Forty, 
May still your Mither's heart support ye : 
Then, tho' a minister grow dorty, 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, 

Before his face. 

God bless your Honours a' your days, 
Wi' soups o' kail and brats o' claise, 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes 

That haunt SoAnt Jamie' $\ 
Your humble poet sings an' prays 

While Rab his name is. 



POSTSCRIPT. 
Let half-staiVd slaves in warmer skies 
See future wines, rich clust'ring rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But blithe and frisky. 
She eyes her freeborn martial boys, 

Tak aff their Whisky. 

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! 
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, 

The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burthen on their shouther ; 
They downa bide the stink o' pouther ; 
Their bauldest thought's a hankering swither 

To stan' or rin, 
Till skelp — a shot—they're aff, a' throwther, 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, such is royal Georges will, 

An' there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doub tings tease him ; 
Death comes, with fearless eyes he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; 

An' when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him 

In faint huzzas. 
Sages their solemn een may steek, 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
An' physically causes seek, 

In clime an' season ; 
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 






POEMS. 291 



Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! 
Tho, whyles ye moistify your leather, 
Till whare you sit, on craps o* heather, 

Ye tine your dam ; 
(Freedom and Whisky gang thegither !) 

Tak aff your dram ! 



THE HOLY FAIR * 

A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty Observation; 
And secret hung with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation ; 
A mask that like the gorget show'd 

Dye- varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a mantle large and broad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Hytocbisy-a-la-mode. 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn, 

An' snuff the callar air, 
The rising sun owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin', 
The hares were hirplin' down the furs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantin 

Fu' sweet that day. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad 

To see a scene sae gay, 
Three hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin' up the way ; 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
The third that gaed a wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shining, 

Fu' gay that gay. 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, an' claes : 
Their visage wither'd, lang, an' thin, 

An* sour as ony slaes ; 
The third came up, hap-stap-an'-loup, 

As light as ony lammie, 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 

Wi' bannet, aff, quoth I, • Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 

But yet I canna name ye.' 
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak, 

An' tak's me by the hands, 

• Holy Fair is a common phrase in the west of Scotland for a sacramental 
occasion. 



292 BURNS 9 WORKS. 

u Ye, for my sake, ha'e gi'en the feck 
Of a' the ten commands 

A screed some day. 

" My name is Fun — your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye ha'e ; 
An' this is Superstition here, 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin' ; 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair, 

We will get famous laughin' 

At them this day." 

Quoth I, ■ With a' my heart I'll do't ; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 
An' meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith we'se hae fine remarkin' !' 
Then 1 gaed hame at crowdie time, 

An' soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad frae side to side, 

Wi' monie a weary body, 

In droves that day. 

Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith 

Gaed hod din' by their cotters ; 
Their swankies young, in braw braid-claith 

Are spriugin' o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin' barefoot, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet milk- cheese in monie a whang, 

An' f arte bak'd wi' butter. 

Fu' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show, 

On ev'ry side they're gathering 
Some carrying deals, some chairs an' stools, 

An' some are busy bletherin', 

Right loud that day. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

An' screen our countra Gentry, 
There, racer Jess, an' twa- three whores, 

Are blinkin' at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades, 

Wi' heavin' breast and bare neck, 
An' there a batch of wabster lads, 

Blackguardin' frae K ck, 

For fun this day. 

Here some are thinkin' on their sins, 
An' some upo' their claes; 



poems. 293 



Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays; 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up grace- proud faces; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin' on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

happy is the man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin' down beside him ! 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back, 

He sweetly does compose him ! 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom 

Unkenn'd that day. 

Now a* the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation ; 
For speels the holy door 

Wi' tidings o' damnation. 
Should Eornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o'God present him, 
The vera sight o' *s face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith 

Wi' rattlin' an thumpin' ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He's stampin' an' he's jumpin' ! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, 

His eldritch squeel and gestures, 
Oh, how they fire the heart devout, 

Like cantharidian plasters, 
On sic a day. 

But hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice ; 

There's peace and rest nae langer : 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They canna sit for anger. 
opens out his cauld harangues 

On practice and on morals ; 
An' aff the godly pour in thrang3, 

To gie the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 

What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral pow'rs and reason ? 
His English style, an' gesture fine, 

Are a* clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But ne'er a word o* faith in 

That's right that day. 



294 BURNS' WORKS. 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum ; 
For , frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' God, 

An' meek an* mim has viewM it, 
While Common- sense has ta'en the road, 

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate, 

Fast, fast, that day. 

Wee — neist the guard relieves, 

An' orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes, 

And thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But, faith ; the birkie wants a manse 

So cannily he hums them : 
Altho' his carnal wit and sense 

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him 

At times that day. 

Now but an' ben, the change-house fills, 

Wi' yill-caup commentators : 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills, 

And there the pint stoop clatters ; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, 

Wi' logic, an wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end, 

Is like to breed a rupture 

0' wrath that day. 

Leeze me on Drink ! it gi'es us mair 

Than either School or College ; 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair, 

It pangs us fou o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul and body, 
Sit round the table weel content, 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an 'that ane's leuk, 

They're makin' observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

An' forming assignations 

To meet some day. 

But now the L— d's ain trumpet touts, 
Till a' the hills are rairin', 

An' echoes back return the shouts : 
Black is na sparin' : 

His piercing words, like Highland swords 
Divide the joints an' marrow; 



poems. 295 



His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, 
Our very sauls does harrow* 

Wi' fright that day. 

A vast, utibottom'd boundless pit, 

Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, 
Wha's ragin' flame an scorchin' heat, 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! 
The half asleep start up wi' fear, 

And think they hear it roarin', 
When presently it does appear, 

'Twas but some neighbour snorin' 
Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How monie stories past, 
An' how they crowded to the yill, 

When they were a' dismist ; 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 

Amang the furms an' benches ; 
An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches 

An' dawds that day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife, 

An' sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife, 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld guidmen, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

And gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day, 

Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O wives be mindfu' ance yoursel' 

How bonnie lads ye wanted, 
An* dinna for a kebbuck-heel, 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day. 

Now CUnumJcbell, wi' rattlin* tow, 

Begins to jow an' croon ; 
Some swagger hame, the best they dow, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon ; 
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, 

They're a' in famous tune, 

For crack that day. 

How monie hearts this day converts 
O* sinners and o' lasses ! 

* Shakespeare's Hamlet. 



296 BURNS' WORKS. 

Their hearts o* stane, gin night, are gane 

A.s saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine ; 

There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
An' mony jobs that day begin, 

May end in houghmagandie 

Some hither day. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE STORY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd 
Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd, 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at times, to vend, 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 

But this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befell, 
Is just as trues the De'il's in hell 

Or Dublin city : 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel' 

'S a muckle pity. 

The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I was nae fou' but just had plenty; 

1 stacher'd whiles, but yet took tent aye 

To free the ditches ; 
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye 

Frae ghaists an' witches. 

The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre ; 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel' ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

1 couldna tell. 

I was come round about the hill, 
And todlin down on Willies mill 
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker ; 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker* 

I there wi' Something did forgather, 

That put me in an eerie swither : 

An' awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouthcr, 

Clear-dangling, hang; 
A three-taed leister on the ither, 

Lay, large an' lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For fient a wame it had ava ; 

And then, its shanks, 






POEMS. 

They were as thin, as sharp, an* sma' 
As cheeks o' branks. 

'Guid-een,' quo' I; 'Friend ! hae ye been mawin', 

• When ither folk, are busy sawin' V 
It seem'd to mak' a kind o' stan', 

But naething spak : 
At length, says I, f Friend, where ye gaun, 
Will ye go back V 

It spak right ho we, — ' My name is Death, 
But be na fley'd.'— Quoth I, < Guid faith, 
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath ; 

But tent me, billie : 
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, 

See there's a gully !' 

1 Guidman,' quo' he, * put up your whittle, 
I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wad na mind it, no, that spittle 

Out owre my beard.' 

' Weel, weel !' says I, ' a bargain be't ; 
Come, gie's your hand, an' sae we're gree't ; 
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, 

Come gie's your news ; 
This while ye hae been mony a gate, 

At mony a house.' 
1 Ay, ay !' quo' he, an' shook his head, 
' Its een a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread, 

An' choke the breath : 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 

An' sae maun Death. 

* Sax thousand years are near hand fled 
Sin' I was to the hutching bred, 

An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, 

To stap or scar me ; 
Till ane Hornbook's taen up the trade, 

An' faith, he'll waur me. 
' Ye ken Jock Hornbook, i' the Clachan, 
Deil mak his king's hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan, * 

An' ither chaps, 
The weans haud out their fingers laughin' 

An' pouk my hips. 

1 See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, 
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart : 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 

And cursed skill, 
Has made them baith no worth a f— t, 

Damn'd haet they'll kill. 
* Buchan's Domestic Medicine, 
N 5 



298 burns' works* 

1 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 

I threw a noble throw at ane ; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; 

But deil-ma«care, 
It just play'd dirl on the bane, 

But did na mair. 

* Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortified the part, 
Then when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae a pierc'd the heart 
Of a kail-runt. 

I I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I nearhand coupit wi' my hurry, 
But yet the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
I might as weel hae tried a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

' Ev*n them he canna get attended, 
Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it, 
Just in a kail-blade, and send it, 

As soon's he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it, 

At once he tells't. 

* An' then a' doctors' saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 
As A B C. 

'Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees; 
True Sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The Farina of beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

' Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 

UriDus Spiritus of capons ; 

Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings ; 

DistilTd per se ; 
Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail clippings, 

An' mony mae.' 

' Waes me for Johnny GeoVs Hole now f 
Quo' I, ' If that the news be true ! 
His braw calf- ward where gowans grew, 

Sae white an' bonnie, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough ; 

They'll ruin Johnnie f 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
An' says, * Ye need na yoke the pleugh, 
Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh, 



poems'* 299 

Tak ye nae fear ; 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh 
In twa-three year. 

1 Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, 
By loss o' blood or want o' breath, 
This night I'm free to tak my aith, 

That Hornbook's skill 
Ha clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap an' pill. 

1 An honest Wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred, 

Gat tippence- worth to mend her head, 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak mair. 

' A countra Laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts, 
His only son for Hornbook sets, 

An' pays him well ; 
The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, 

Was Jaird himseF. 

' A bonnie lass, ye ken her name, 

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame ; 

She trusts hersel', to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook's care ; 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, 

To hide it there. 

' That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay. 

An's weel paid for't ; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, 

Wi' his damn'd dirt. 

« But hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Though dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self-conceited sot, 

As dead's a herrin' ; 
Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his fairin' ! 

But just as he began to tell, 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell, 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal, 

Which rais'd us baith; 
I took the way that pleased mysel', 

And sae did Heath, 



i 



THE BRIGS OF AYR: 

A POEM. 

Inscribed to J. B , Esq. Ayb. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 
Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; 



300 BURNS' WORKS. 

The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, 

Hailing the setting sun, sweet in the green thorn bush; 

The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, 

Or deep toned plovers, grey, wild whistling o'er the hill; 

Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed, 

To hardy independence bravely bred, 

By early Poverty to hardship steel'd, 

And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field — 

Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 

The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes? 

Or labour hard the panegyric close, 

With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose ] 

No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, 

And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, 

He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 

Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 

Still if some Patron's generous care he trace, 

Skilled in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 

When B befriends his humble name, 

And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, 
With heart- felt throbs his grateful bosom swells, 
The godlike bliss, to give alone excels. 

■Jffc 7K W» 7F <fc 

'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil won crap : 
Potatoe bings are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
The bees rejoicing o'er their simmer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : 
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 
Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs : 
Nae mair the grove wi' airy concert rings, 
Except, perhaps, the Robin's whistling glee, 
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree ; 
The hoary morns precede the sunny days, 
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze, 
While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays. 
Twas in that season, when a simple bard, 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, 
By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care ; 
He left his bed, and took his wayward route, 
And down by Simpson s wheel'd the left about : 
(Whether ioipeljL'd bv ail-directing Fate 
To witness what I after shall narrate ; 



POEMS. 301 

Or whether rapt in meditation high, 

He wander'd out he knew not where nor why), 

The drowsy Dungeon clock, had number' d two, 

And Wallace tower had sworn the fact was true : 

The tideswoln Firth, with sullen-sounding roar, 

Thro' the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore : 

All else was hush'd in Nature's closed e'e ; 

The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : 

The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 

Crept, gently crustling, o'er the glittering stream. 

When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning bard, 
The clanging sough of whistling wings he heard ; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, 
Swift as the Gos drives on the wheeling hare; 
Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 
The ither nutters o'er the rising piers ; 
Our warlike Rhymer instantly descry 'd 
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. 
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
An' ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; 
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a' they can explain them, 
And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them.) 
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Piotish race, 
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face : 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, 
Yet teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
Xew Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 
That he, at Lonon frae ane A dams got ; 
In's hand five taper staves as smoothes a bead, 
YVi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ; 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd an' angry heart had he ! 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see each modish mien 
He, down the water, gies him thus guide'en — 

AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na', frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho' faith that day 1 doubt ye'll never see ; 
There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle, 
Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle. 

1SEW BRIG. 

Auld Yandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, 
Where twa wheel barrows tremble when they meet, 
Your ruin'd formless bulk, o' stane an' lime, 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time] 
There's men o' taste would tak the Ducatstream, 
Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim, 



302 burns' works. 

Ere they would grate their feelings wi* the view 
Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ! pufFd up wi' windy pride ! 
This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide ; 
An' tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, 
Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds and spotted thowes, 
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate ; 
And from Glenbuck down to the JRatton hey, 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea; 
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies, 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 



HEW BRIG. 

Tine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't ! 

The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't ! 

Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist- alluring edifices, 

Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices; 

O'er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 

Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : 

Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture drest, 

With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 

Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, 

The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 

Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, 

And still the second dread command be free, 

Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. 

Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 

Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast ; 

Fit only for a doited Monkish race, 

Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, 

Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion 

That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion. 

Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, 

And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection ! 

AtTLD BRIG. 

O ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings, 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! 



POEMS 303 

Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, 

Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye ; 

Ye dainty Deacons, an' ye douce Conveners, 

To whom our moderns are but causey- cleaners ; 

Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; 

Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown, 

Wha meekly gae your liurdies to the smiters ; 

And (what would now be strange) ye godly Writers : 

A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, 

Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! 

How would your spirits groan in deep vexation. 

To see each melancholy alteration ; 

And agonizing, curse the time and place 

When ye begat the base, degenerate race ! 

Nae laoger Kev'rend Men, their country's glory, 

In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story ! 

Nae longer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, 

Meet owre a pint, or in the Council house ; 

But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 

The herryment and ruin of the country ; 

Men, three parts made by tailors and by barbers, 

Wha waste your well-hain'd gear on d d new Brigs and 

Harbours I 

HEW BRIG. 

Now haud you there ! for faith ye've said enough, 
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through, 
As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
But, under favour o' your langer beard, 
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spared ; 
To liken them to your auld warld squad, 
1 must needs say comparisons are odd. 
In Ayr, Wag- wits nae mair can hae a handle 
To mouth ■ a Citizen,' a term o' scandal : 
Nae mair the Council waddles down the street 
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 
Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops an' raisins, 
Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins. 
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 
Had shored them with a glimmer of his lamp, 
And would to Common-sense, for once betrayed them, 
Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 
***** 

What farther clishmaclaver might been said, 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : 
Adown the glitt'ring stream they featly danced : 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced : 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet. 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. 



304 BURNS' WORKS. 

had M'Lauchlin, thairm-inspiring sage, 

Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 

When thro' his dear Strathspeys they bore with Highland 

rage; 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, 
The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler fired, 
And even his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd ! 
No guess could tell what intrument appear'd, 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard : 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
While simple melody poured moving on the heart. 

The Genius of the stream in front appears, 
A venerable chief advanced in years ; 
His hoary head with water lilies crownd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring ; 
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid -beaming eye : 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding corn; 
Then Winter's time-bleached locks did hoary ghow, 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow ; 
Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride, 
From where tiheFeal wild- woody coverts hide : 
Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode; 
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgac their kindling wrath. 



THE ORDINATION. 



For sense they little owe to Frugal Heav'n — 
To please the Mob they hide the little giv'n. 



Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge and claw 

An' pour your creeshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 

Of a' denominations. 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', 

An' there tak up your stations ; 
Then aff to Beglies in a raw, 

An' pour divine libations, 

For joy this day. 

Curst Common Sense, that imp o' hell, 
Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder : 

But aft made her yell, 

An' II sair misca'd her ; 



POEMS. 305 

This day M' takes the flail, 

An' he's the boy will blaud her : 
He'll clap a shangan on her tail, 

An' set the bairns to daud her 

Wi' dirt this day. 

Mak haste an' turn King David owre, 

An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
0* double verse come gie us four, 

An' skirl up the Bangor . 
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, 
For heresy is in her power, 

And gloriously she'll whang her 

Wi' pith this day. 

Come let a proper text be read, 

An' touch it aff wi' vigour, 
How graceless Ham leugh at his Dad, 

Which made Canaan a niger ; 
Or Phineas drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' whore-abhorring rigour ; 
Or Zipporah, the scaulding jade, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

1' the inn that day. 

There, try his mettle on the creed, 

An' bind him down wi' caution, 
That Stipend is a carnal weed, 

He taks but for the fashion ; 
An' gie him o'er the flock to feed, 

An' punish each transgression ; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Gie them sufficient threshin', 

Spare them nae day. 

Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 

An' toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
Nae mair thoul't rowte out owre the dale 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel hail, 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
An' runts o' grace, the pick and wale, 

No gi'en by way o' dainty, 

But ilka day. 

Nae mair by BabeVs streams we'll weep, 

To think upon our Zion, 
An' hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby- clouts a-dryin' ; 
Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep, 

An' owre the thairms be tryin' ; 
Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, 

An' a' like lambs' tails flyin' 

Fu' fast this day. 
Lang Patronage, wi* rod o' aim, 

Has shored the Kirk's undoing 



306 burns' works. 

As lately Fenwich, sair forfaim, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our Patron, honest man ! Glencaim, 

He saw mischef was brewing ; 
An' like a godly elect bairn, 

He's waled us out a true ane, 

An' sound this day. 

Now R — — — harangue nae mair, 

But steek your gab for ever ; 
Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 

For there they'll think you clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye may commence a shaver ; 
Or to the Netherton repair, 

An' turn a carpet weaver 

Aff hand this day. 

M — and you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones ; 
Auld Homie did the Laigh Kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin' baudrons : 
An' aye he catch'd the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons : 
But now his honour maun detach, 

Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons, 

Fast, fast, this day. 

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes, 

She's swingein through the city ; 
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
There Learning, wi' his Greekish face, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty : 
An' Common-sense is gaun, she says, 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her plaint this day. 

But there's Morality himself 

Embracing a' opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell, 

Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 

As ane were peelin' onions ; 
Now there — they're packed aff to hell, 

An' banish'd our dominions, 

Henceforth this day. 

happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter : 
M c — , R , are the boys, 

That heresy can torture : 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, 

An* cowe her measure shorter 

By the head some day. 



POEMS, 307 

Come bring the tither mutchkin in, 

An* here's for a conclusion, 
To every Nece Light mother's son, 

From this time forth Confusion : 
If mair they deave us wi' their din, 

Or Patronage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, an' ev'ry skin, 

We'll rin them aff in fusion, 

Like oil some day. 



THE CALF. 

TO THE REV. MR. 

On his Text, Malachi, ch. iv. ver. 2. And they shall go forth, and grow up, 
like calves of the stall. 

Right Sir ! you text I'll prove it true, 

Though heretics may laugh ; 
For instance ; there's yoursel' just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf! 

An* should some Patron be so kind, 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt nae, Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as great a Stirh 

But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it, every heavenly Power, 

You e'er should prove a JStot / 

Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And in your lug, most reverend James, 

To hear you roar and rowte, 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank amang the nowte. 

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

" Here lies a famous Bulloch" 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 

O Prince! O Chief of many throned Powers, 
Who led the embattled Seraphim to war. — Milton. 

O thou ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 

Clos'd under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches. 
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
An* let poor damned bodies be ; 



308 BURNS' WORKS. 

I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 

E'en to a deil, 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 

An' hear us squeel ! 
Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 
Far kend and noted is thy name ; 
An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy name, 

Thou travels far; 
An' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 

aSTor blate nor scaur. 
Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion, 
For prey, a' holes and corners try in' ; 
Whyles on the strong- wing'd tempest flyin', 

Tirling the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', 

Unseen thou lurk3. 
I've heard my reverend Grannie say, 
In lanely glens you like to stray ; 
Or where auld ruin'd castles gray, 

Nod to the moon, 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 
When twilight did my Graunie summon, 
To say her prayers, douce honest woman ! 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin ! 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin' thro' the boortries comin', 

Wi' heavy groan. 
Ae weary, windy, winter night, 
The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, 
Wi' you, mysel', I gat a fright, 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sough. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 
When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick — quaick- 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd like a drake, 

On whistling wings. 

Let Warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, 
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags, 
They skim the muirs, and dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed ; 
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, 
Owre howkit dead. 

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ; 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's ta'en 

By witching skill ; 
An' dawtit, twal-pint Haivkie's gaen 

As yell's the Bill. 



POEMS. 309 

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, 
On young Guidman, fond, keen, an* crouse ; 
When the best wark-lume i' the house, 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worth a louse, 

Just at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
An' float the jinglin' icy-boord, 
Then Water-kelpies haunt the f oord, 

By your direction, 
An' lighted Travelers are allured 

To their destruction. 

An* aft your moss- traversing Spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late and drunk is ; 
The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 
Ne'er mair to rise. 

When Mason's mystic word an' grip, 
In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or, strange to tell ; 
The youngest Brother ye wad whip 
Aff straught to hell ! 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
An' all the soul of love they shared, 

The raptured hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant flowery swaird 

In shady bower. 

Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog ! 
Ye came to Paradise incog., 
An* played on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa' !) 
An' gied the infant world a shog, 

'Maist ruined a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz 

'Mang better folk, 
An' sklented on the man of TJz 

Your spitefu' joke 1 

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
An' brak him out o' house an' hall, 
While scabs and blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw, 
An' lowsed his ill-tongued wicked Scawl, 

Was warst ava 1 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce, 
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce ; 



310 burns' works. 

Down to this time, 

Wad ding a Lallan tongue or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An* now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin', 
A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', 
Some luckless hour will send him linking 

To your black pit ; 
But faith ! he'll turn a corner, jinkin', 

And cheat you yet. 

But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 
O wad ye tak' a thought and men' I 
Ye aiblins might— I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm wae to think upon yon den, 

Even for your sake ! 



THE 

DEATH AND DYING WORDS 

OF 

POOR MAILIE, 
THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 



As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether, 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' owre she warsled in the ditch ; 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc he came doytin by. 

Wi' glowrin' een, and lifted ban's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue s tan's : 
He saw her days were near-hand ended, 
But wae's my heart ! he could na mend it ! 
He gaped wide, but naething spak ! 
At length poor Mailie silence brak. 

" thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my waefu' case ! 
My dying words attentive hear, 
An' bear them to my Master dear. 

" Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! 
But ca' them out to park or hill, 
An' let them wander at their will : 
So may his flock increase, an' grow 
To score 3 o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' ! 

" Tell him, he was a master kin', 
An' aye was guid to me an' mine ; 






POEMS. 311 



An' now my dying charge I gie him, 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 

" bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives ; 
But gie them guid cow milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themseP ; 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn. 

"An' may they never learn the gaets, 
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets ! 
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal, 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears, 
For mony a year come thro' the sheers : 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread, 
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

" My poor tooplamh, my son an' heir, 
bid him breed him up wi' care ! 
An' if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some havins in his breast, 
An' warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame ; 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, 
Like ither menseless, graceless, brutes, 

" An neist, my yowie, silly thing, 
Guid keep thee frae a tether string ! 

! may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit moorland toop : 
But aye keep mind to moop an' mell 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel' ! 

" An' now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, 

1 lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : 

An' when you think upo' your mither, 
Mind to be kin' to ane anither. 

" JSTow, honest Huglioc, dinna fail 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether, 
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether-" 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
And clos'd her een amang the dead. 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane o' his woes ; 

Poor Mailie's dead ! 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 



312 BURNS' WORKS. 

Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 

He's lost a friend and neebor dear, 
In Mailie dead. 

Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 

She ran wi' speed ; 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
An' could behave hersel' wi' mense : 
I'll say't, she never brack a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailie dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe, 
Her living image in her yowe 
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, 

For bits o' bread ; 
An' down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
Wi' tawted ket, an hairy hips : 
For her forbears were brought in ships, 

Frae yont the Tweed ! 
A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 
Than Mailie dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile wanchancie thing —a rape / 
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, 

Wi' chokin' dread ; 
An' Mobin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 

For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon / 
An' wha on Ayr your chaunters tune ! 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

0' Robin* s reed ! 
His heart will never get aboon 

His Mailie dead. 



TO J, S- 



Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ! 
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society ! 
I owe thee much ! Blair. 



Dear S , the sleest, paukie thief, 

That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 



POEMS. 

Owre human hearts ; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
And every star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon, 

Just gaun to see you : 
And every ither pair that's done, 

Mair taen I'm with you. 

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak amends for scrimpit stature, 
She's turn'd you atf, a human creature 

On her first plan, 
And in her freaks, on every feature, 

She's wrote, the Man, 

Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon ; 
Hae ye a leisure moment's time 

To hear what's comin' ] 

Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash ; 
Some rhyme (vain thought !) for needfu' cash, 
Some rhyme to court the countra clash, 

An' raise a din; 
For me an aim I never fash ; 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot, 
Has fated me the russet coat, 
An' damned my fortune to the groat : 

But in requit, 
Has bless'd me wi' a random shot 

0' countra wit. 

This while my notion's taen a sklent, 
To try my fate in guid black prent ; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries ' Hoolie 
I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 

Yell shaw your folly. 

1 There's ither poets, much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensured their debtors, 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, 

Their unknown pages. 

Then farewell hopes o' laurel-bough3, 
To garland my poetic brows 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Q 



313 



314 BURNS* WORKS. 

Are whistling thrang, 
An' teach the lanely heights an' howes 
My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, with tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed, 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead, 

Forgot and gone ! 

But why o' death begin a tale ? 
Just now we're living, sound an' hale, 
Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave care o'er side ! 
And large, before enjoyment's gale, 

Let's tak' the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand, 
Is a' enchanted fairy land, 
"Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That, wielded right, 
Maks hour3 like minutes, hand in hand, 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic- wand then let us wield 
For ance that five-an' forty's speel'd, 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkled face, 
Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field, 
Wi' creepin' pace. 

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin', 
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin' ; 
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin', 

An' social noise ; 
An' fareweel dear deluding woman. 

The joy of joys ! 

Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys, at the expected warning, 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Amang the leaves : 
And though the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some lucky, find a flowery spat, 
For which they never toiled nor swat 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 

But care or pain 
And haply eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 



POEMS. 315 

With steady aim, some Fortune chase ; 
Keen hope does every sinew brace ; 
Thro* fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

And seize the prey : 
Then cannie in some cozie place, 

They close the day. 

An* others, like your humble servan', 
Poor wights ! nae rules or roads observing 
To right or left, eternal swerving 

They zig-zag on ; 
Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starvin/ 

They af ten groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil an* straining — 
But truce with peevish poor complaining ! 
Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning 1 

E'en let her gang, 
Beneath what light she has remaining, 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door, 
And kneel, • Ye Pow'rs !' and warm implore, 
Tho' I should wander terra o'er, 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Aye rowth o' rhymes. 

' Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards : 
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, 

An' maids of honour 
An* yill an* whisky gie to cairds, 

Until they sconner. 

' A title, Dempster merits it ; 
And garter gie to Willie Pitt, 
Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 

In cent, per cent. 
But give me real, sterling wit, 

An' I'm content. 

' While ye are pleased to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face, 
As lang's the muses dinna fail 

To say the grace.' 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows, 
As weel's I may : 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, an' prose, 
I rhyme away. 

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Graves, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you— -0 fool ! fool ! fool f 



31.6 burns' works. 

How much unlike ! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 
Your lives, a dyke ! 

Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces 
In your unlettered nameless faces ; 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
But gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise, 
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 
The rattlin' squad : 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 

— Ye ken the road. — 

Whilst I — but I shall haud me there — 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quat my sang, 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



A DREAM. 

Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason ; 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. 

On reading, in the public papers, the Laureate's Ode, with the other parade of 
June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself 
transported to the birthday levee; and in his dreaming fancy, made the fol- 
lowing Address.] 

Guid-mornin' to your Majesty 1 

May heaven augment your blisses, 
On every new birth day ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My hardship here at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is, 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang the birth-day dresses 

Sae fine this day. 

I see ye're complimented thrang, 

By mony a lord an' lady, 
' God save the King !' 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said aye ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wr rhymes weel turn'd an' ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But aye unerring steady, 

On sic a day, 

For me ! before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna Hatter; 
For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Ami your humble debtor : 






POEMS. 317 



So nae reflection on your grace 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's monie waur been o' the race, 

An' aiblins ane been better 

Than you this day. 
'Tis very true, my sov'reign king, 

My skill may well be doubted ; 
But facts are chiels that winna ding 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
An' now the third part o' the string, 

An less, will gang about it 

Than did ae day. 

Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or lire, 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire, 

Ye've trusted ministration 
To chaps, wha in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 

An' now ye'eve gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaister ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester ; 
For me, thank God, my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or faith ! I fear that wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' the craft some day. 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
An' Will's true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges), 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

An' lessen a' your charges ; 
But God sake ! let nae saving Jit 

Abridge your bonnie barges 

An' boats this day. 

Adieu, my Liege, may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may ye rax Corruption's neck, 

An' gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great birth-day. 

Hail Majesty, Most Excellent, 
While nobles strive to please ye, 



318 burns' works. 

Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye ] 
Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye, 
In bliss, till fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 

For you, young potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, 

By night or day. 

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To mak a noble aiver : 
So, ye may doucely fill a throne, 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
There, him at Agincourt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver ; 
And yet wi' funny queer Sir John, 

He was an unco shaver, 

For monie a day. 

For you, right reverend Osnabrug, 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
Altho' a ribbon at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown that paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug, 

Or, trouth, yell stain the mitre 

Some luckless day. 

Young royal Tarry Breels, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her ; . 
A glorious galley stem an' stern, 

Weel rigged for Venus barter; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymeneal charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple aim, 

An', large upo' her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a/ 

Ye royal lasses dainty, 
Heav'n make you guid as well as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer nae British boys awa', 

For kings are unco scant aye ; 
An' German gentles are but sma', 

They're better just than want aye, 
On onie day. 



POEMS. 

God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But, ere the course o' life be thro' 

It may be bitter sautet ; 
An* I hae seen their coggie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 



319 



THE VISION. 

DtJAN FIRST. 

The sun had closed the winter's day, 
The curler's quat their roaring play, 
An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green, 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's weary flingin-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me : 
And whan the day had closed his e'e, 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 
I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely by the ingle -cheek, 
I sat, and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fill'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin' ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 
About the riggin*. 

All in this mottie mistie clime, 
I backward mus'd on wasted time, 
How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

An* done nae-thing, 
But stringin' blethers up in rhyme, 
For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank and clarkit 

My cash account : 
Whilst here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, 

1 a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt'ring, blockhead ! coof ! 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or some rash aith, 
That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof, 

Till my last breath — 

When click ! the string the sneck did draw ; 
An' jee ! the door gaed to the wa'; 



320 BURNS' WORKS. 

A' by the ingle-lowe I saw, 

Now bleezin' bright, 

A tight outlandish Eizzie, braw, 

Come full in sight. 

Ye need na doubt, 1 held my whisht ! 
The infant-aith half-form'd was crush't ; 
I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blush't, 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs, 
Were twisted gracefu' round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token ; 
An' come to stop those reckless vows, 

Would soon been broken. 

A ' hair- brained sentimental trace' 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly-witty rustic grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye, eVn turned on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honour. 

Down fiow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 

Could only pear it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 
Nane else cam near it. 

Her mantle large of greenish hue, 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
Deep lights and shades, bold mingling, threw 

A lustre grand ; 
And seem'd to my astonish'd view, 

A well-known land. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost; 
There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, 

With surging foam ; 
There, distant shore Art's lofty boast, 
The lordly dome. 

Here Boon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods ; 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 

On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 
An ancient borough rear'd her head ; 
Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race, 



POEMS. 

To every nobler virtue bred, 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately tow'r or palace fair, 
Or ruins pendent in the air, 
Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, 

With feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel, 
To see a race heroic wheel, 
And brandish round the deep dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their suthron foes. 

His Country's Saviour, mark him well ! 
Bold Richardtoris heroic swell ; 
The chief on Sarh who glorious fell, 

In high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptred Pictish shade 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race portray'd 

In colours strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd 

They strode along. 

Thro' many a wild, romantic grove, 
Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love 

In musing mood,) 
An aged Jzidge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 

With deep -struck reverential awe, 
The learned sire and son I saw, 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore, 
This, all its source and end to draw, 

That to adore. 

Brydoris brave ward I well could spy, 
Beneath old Scotia^s smiling eye ; 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, 

To hand him on, 
Where many a patriot-name on high, 

And hero shone. 

DUAN SECOND. 

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heav'nly seeming fair ; 
A whisp'ring throb did witness bear, 
Of kindred sweet, 
o 5 



32\ 



322 bubNs* wGRks. 

When with an elder sister's air, 
She did me greet. 

" All hail ! my own inspired bard ! 
In me thy native muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 
Thus poorly low, 
I come^to give thee such reward 
As we bestow. 

9i Know, the great genius of this land. 
Has many a light, aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms thev understand, 

Their labours ply. 

" They Scotia* s racs among them share ; 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart ; 
Some teach the bard, a darling care, 

The tuneful art. 

u 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 
Or, 'mid the vernal senate's roar, 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest patriot-lore, 

And grace the land. 

" And when the bard, or hoary sage, 
Charm or instruct the future age, 
They bind the wild poetic rage 

In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

" Hence Fullarton, the brave and young ; 
Hence Dempsters zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Bealtie sung 

His " Minstrel lays;" 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 

" To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human kind, 
The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, 

The Artisan ; 
All choose, as various they're inclin'd, 
The various man. 

" When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threat'ning storm some strongly rein ; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain, 

With tillage skill ; 
And some instruct the shepherd-train, 
Blithe o'er the hilL 






POEMS. 32 J 

* Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

" Some bounded to a district space, 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace, 

Of rustic Bard; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 

" Of these am I—Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 

Held ruling pow'r, 
I mark d thy embryo tuneful flame, 
Thy natal hour. 

" With future hope, I oft would gaze, 
Fond on thy little early ways, 
Thy rudely caroll'd, chiming phrase, 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fired at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

" I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 
I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

" Or when the deep-green mantled earth 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the general mirth 

With boundless love. 

" When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their ev'ning joys, 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

" When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 
Th' adored Name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 
To soothe thy flame. 

" I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way* 



$24* burns' works. 

Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, 

By Passion driven ; 

But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven. 

" I taught thy manners painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains, 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains, 

Become thy friends. 

" Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
Or wake the bosom -melting throe, 

"With Shenstone's art ; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 
Warm on the heart. 

" Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows : 
Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade, 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 

Adown the glade. 

" Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
And trust me, not Potosis mine, 

Nor kings' regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 

A rustic Bard. 

" To give my counsel? all in one, 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the dignity of Man, 

With soul erect ; 
And trust the Universal Plan 

Will all protect. 

" And wear thou this/ — she solemn said, 
And bound the Holly round my head; 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red, 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, 

OR THE 

RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 

My son, these maxims make a rule, 

And lump them aye thegither ; 
The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 

The Rigid Wise anither : 

The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 

May hie some pyles o' c if in ; 
Sae ne'er a fellow-creature slight 

For random fits o' daffin. — 

Solomon.— Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16. 



POEMS, 



325 



O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebour's fauts and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel gaun mill, 

Supply'd wi' store o' water, 
The heapet happer's ebbing still, 

And still the clap plays clatter. 
Hear me, ye venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaikit Folly's portals ; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Would here propone defences, 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 

Their failings and mischances. 

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared. 

And shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What maks the mighty differ % 
Discount what scant occasion gave 

That purity ye pride in, 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and fchen a wallop, 
What ragings must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal gallop : 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Eight on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It makes an unco lee way. 

See social life and glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transmogrified, they're grown 

Debauchery and drinking : 
would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded bell to state, 

Damnation of expenses ! 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Ty'd up in godly laces, 
Before ye gie -poor frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Tho' they may gang a kenniu wrar.g, 

To step aside u human ,* 



32f burns' works. 

One point must still be greatly dark, 
The moving why they do it ; 

And just as lamely can ye mark, 
How far perhaps they rue it. 

Who made the heart, 'tis Ee alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord — its various tone, 

Each spring — its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY 
An honest man's the noblest work of God.— Pope, 

Has auld K seen the deil ! 

Or great M f thrawn his heel 1 

Or 5.—— again grown weel 

To preach an' read ? 
i Na, waur than a' !' cries ilka chiel, 
' Tarn Samsons dead !' 



lang may grunt an* grane, 



An' sigh, an' sab' an' greet her lane, 

An' deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean, 

In mourning weed ; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kane, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

The brethren of the mystic level, 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will revel, 

Like ony head ! 
Death's gien the lodge an unco devel, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

When winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the lochs the curlers flock, 

Wi' gleesome speed ; 
Wha will they station at the cock I 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

He was the king o' a' the core, 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, 
Or up the rink, like Jehu roar, 

In time o' need ; 
But now he lags on death's hog-score, 

Tarn Samsom's dead ! 

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, 
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimsom hail, 
And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail, 

And geds for greed, 
Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail, 

Tarn Samson dead i 



POEMS. 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; 
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, 

Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa', 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

That waefu' morn be ever mourn'd, 
Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd, 
While pointers round impatient burn'd 

Frae couples freed ! 
But, och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 
In vain the burns came down like waters 

An acre braid ! 
Now eVry auld wife greetin', clatters, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, 
An* aye the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward death behind him jumpit 

Wi deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi weel-aim'd heed ; 
' L— d, five P he cry'd, an' owre did stagger; 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; 
Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Bums has wrote, in rhyming blether, 
Tam Samsons dead I 

There low he lies, in lasting rest : 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, 

To hatch an' breed ; 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tam Samson's dead. 

When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 

pouther an' lead, 
Till Echo answer frae her cave, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be 
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me : 
He had twa fauts, or may be three, 

Yet what remeadl 



327 



S28", BURNS' WORKS. 

Ae social, honest man, want we : 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 



THE EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, 
Ye canting zealots, spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'll mend or ye won near him. 



PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie, 
Tell every social, honest billie, 

To cease his grievin', 
For yet unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 

Tam Samson's liviri. 



HALLOWEEN 



Yes ! let the rich deride, the poor disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 



Up»n that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis Downans dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance ; 
Or for Cohan the route is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ! 
There up the cove* to stray an' rove 

Amang the rocks and streams, 

To sport that night. 

Amang the bonnie winding banks 

Where Boon rins, wimplin', clear, 
Where Bruce ance rul'd the martial ranks, 

An' shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, 

An' haud their Halloween 

Fu' blithe that night. 

The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
Their faces blithe, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, an , warm, an' kin' : 
The lads sae trig wi 1 wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, and some wi' gabs, 

Q* hearts ?zr\g startm' 

Why lei fast at night. 



POEMS. 

Then first and foremost, thro' the kail, 

Their stocks maun a' be sought ance ; 
They steek their een, an' graip, an' wale, 

For muckle anes and straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, 

An" wander'd thro' the low-kail, 
An' pou't for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 

They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee things, todlin', rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; 
An' gif the customs sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care, they've plac'd them 
To lie that night. 

The lasses staw frae 'mang then a' 

To pou their statics o' com ; 
But Rab slips out, and jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn ; 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 

When kiuttlin' in the fause-house 

Wi' him that night. 

The auld guidwife's weel-hoordet nits 

Are round an' round divided, 
And monie lads and lasses' fates, 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, couthy side by side, 

An' burn thegither trimly ; 
Some smart awa' wi' saucy pride, 

An' jump out-owre the chimlie 

Fu' high that night. 

Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e ; 

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, an' this is me, 

She says in to hersel' : 
He bleez^d owre her, and she owre him, 

As they wad never mair part ; 
Till faff ! he started up the lum, 

An' Jean had e'en a sair heart 

To see't that night. 

Poor Willie, wi' his how -hail runt, 
Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; 

An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, 
To be compar'd to Willie ; 

Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 
An' her ain fit it brunt it ; 



329 



330 BURNS' WORKS. 

While Willie lap, and swoor by jing, 
'T was just the way he wanted 

To be that night. 

Nell had the fause-house in her min', 

She pits hersel' an' Rob in ; 
In lovin' bleeze they sweetly join, 

Till white in ase they're Bobbin' : 
Nell's heart was dancin' at the view, 

She whisper'd Rob to seek for't : 
Rob, stowlins prie'd her bonnie mou, 

Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 

But Merran sat behint their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, 

And slips out by hersel' : 
She thro' the yard the nearest taks, 

An' to the kiln she goes then, 
An' darklins graipit for the bauks, 

And in the Hue clue thraws then, 

Right fear't that night. 

An' aye she win't, an' ay she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin ; 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L— d ! but she was quakin' ! 
But whether 'twas the Deil himsel', 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en, 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did na wait on talkin' 

To spier that night. 

Wee Jenny to her Graunie says, 

" Will ye go wi' me graunie ? 
I'll eat the apple at the glass, 

I gat frae Uncle Johnnie :" 
She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin', 
She notic'd na, an aizle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night. 

u Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! 

How daur ye try sic sportin', 
As seek the foul Thief ony place, 

For him to spae your fortune : 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight J 

Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
For monie a ane has gotten a fright, 

An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret 

On sic a night. 

" Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 

I mind't as weel's yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 
was na past fyfteen ; 



POEMS. 331 






The simmer had been cauld an' wat, 

An' stuff was unco green : 
An' aye a rantin kirn we gat, 

An' just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 

" Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, 

A clever, sturdy fallow ; 
He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That liv'd in Achmacalla : 
He gat hemp-seed, I mind it weel, 

An' he made unco light o't ; 
But monie a day was by himsel', 

He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night." 

Then up gat fetchtin' Jamie Fleck, 

An* he swoor by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 

For it was a' but nonsense ! 
The auld guid man raught down the pock, 

An 5 out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 

An' try't that night. 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 

Tho' he was something sturtin, 
The giaip he for a harrow taks, 

An' haurls at his curpin : 
An' every now an' then he says, 

" Hemp-seed I saw thee, 
An' her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me, and draw thee, 

As fast this night." 

He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' march, 

To keep his courage cheery : 
Altho' his hair began to arch, 

He was sae fley'd an' eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek, 

An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

He roar'd a horrid murder shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' auld cam rinnin' out, 

To hear the sad narration : 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a* ; 

An' wha was it but Grumphie 

A steer that night ! 
Meg fain wad to the harm hae gane, 

To win thm mchts o 1 meihing ; 



332 BURNS' WORKS. 

But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She pat but little faith in ; 
She gies the herd a pickle nits, 

An' twa red cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the barn she sets 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 

That vera night. 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, 

An' owre the threshold ventures ; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca', 

Syne bauldly in she enters ; 
A ration rattled up the wa' 

An' she cry'd, L — d preserve her ! 
An' ran thro' midden hole an' a', 

An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, 

Fu' fast that night, 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; 

Then hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
It chanc'd the stack hefaddom'd thrice, 

Was timmer-prapt for thrawin'; 
He taks a swirlie auld moss- oak, 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
An' loot a wince, an' drew a stroke, 

Till skin in biypes cam haurlin' 

Aff's nieves that night. 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As canty as a kitten ; 
But Och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

She got a fearfu' settlin' ! 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 

An' owre the hill gaed scrievin', 
Whare thrae lairds' lands met at a bum, 

To dip her left sark sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

Amang the brackens, on the brae, 

Between her an' the moor, 
The deil, or else an outler quey, 

Gat up an' gae a croon ; 
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; 

Ne'er lavrock height she jumpet, 
But mist a fit, an' in the 'pool 

Out owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 



poems. 333 



In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The lug gees three are ranged, 
And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, 

To see them duly changed ; 
Auld uiiele John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin' Mar' 8-year did desire, 
Because he gat the tooru-dish thrice, 

He heav'd them on the fire, 

In wrath that night. 

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they did na weary ; 
An' unco tales, and funnie jokes, 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery ; 
Till butter d so'ns, wi' fragrant hint, 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

They parted aff careerin' 

Fu' blithe that night, 



THE 

AULD FARMER'S 

NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS 

AULD MARE MAGGIE, 

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN 
THE NEW TEAR. 

A Guid Xew-year I wish thee Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now an' knaggie, 

I've seen the day, 
Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 
i 
Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy, 
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, an' glaizie, 

A bonnie gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, 
Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank, 
An' set weel down a shapely shank 

As e'er tred yird ; 
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, 

Like onie bird. 

It's now some nine-an'- twenty year, 
Sin' thou was my guid father's meere r 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

An' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel- won gear, 

An' thou was stark. 



334 BURNS' WORKS. 

Whan first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie ; 
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an* funnie, 

Ye ne'er was donsie, 
But namely, tawie, quiet, an* cannie 
An' unco sonsie. 

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride : 
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide, 

For sic a pair. 

Tho* now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble, 
An' wintle like a samount- coble, 
That day ye was a j inker noble, 
For heels an' win' ! 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 
Far, far behin'. 

When thou an* I were young and skeigh, 
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, 
How thou wad prance, an* snore, an' skreigh, 

An' tak the road ! 
Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, 

An' ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, 
We took the road aye like a swallow : 
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 

For pith an' speed ; 
And ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 

An gar't them whaizle : 
Nae whip nor spur, 'but just a wattle 
0' saugh or hazel. 

Thou was a noble fittie-lan', 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ; 
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 

On guid March weather, 
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't an' fetch' fc, an' fliskit, 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
An* spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, 

Wi* pith an' pow'r, 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't an' risket, 

An' slypet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, an* snaws were deep, 
An* threaten'd labour back to keep, 



POEMS. 

I gied my cog a wee bit heap 

A boon the timmer : 

I ken'd my Maygie wadna sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ; 
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit, 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing has tit, 
Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a* : 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa, 

That thou hast nurst. 
They drew me thretteen pund and twa, 

The vera warst. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa had wrought, 
An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
An' monie an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

An' think na, my auld, trusty servan', 
That now perhaps "thou's less deservin', 
An' thy auld days may end in starvin', 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyt about wi' ane anither; 
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 
Wi' sma' fatigue. 









TO A MOUSE, 

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na' start awa sa hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring pattle / 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
And justifies that ill opinion 
That makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion 
An' fellow-mortal I 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live J 



336 BURNS* WORKS. 

A claimen icher in a thrave 

'S a sma' request : 

I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, 

And never miss't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 
An' naethin' now to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin' 

Baith snell and keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin' fast, 
An' cozie here beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 
Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 
An' cranreuch cauld ! 

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain: 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 

Gang aft agley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, 

For promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me I 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But Och ! I backward cast my e'e 
On prospects dear : 
An' forward, though I canna see, 
I guess an' fear. 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfitted sides, 
Your loup'd and windovrd raggedness, defend you 
From seasons such as these ? — Shakespear. 



When biting Boreas, fell and doure, 
Sharp shivers through the leafless bow'r ; 
When Phcebus gi'es a short- liv'd glowr 

Far south the lift, 
Dim-dark'ning through the flaky show'r 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, 



poems. 337 

While burns wi' snawy wreaths up chocked, 

Wild- eddying swirl, 
Or through the mining outlet bocked, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, who bide this brattle 

0' winter war, 
And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattle 

Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, 
That in the merry month o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ] 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy cluttering wing, 

An' close thy e'e] 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd, 
The blood stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoii'd, 

My heart forgets, 
While pitiless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phcebe, in her midnight rein, 
Dark muffled, view'd the dreary plain : 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear this plaintive strain, 

Slow solemn stole — 
1 Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust ! 
And freeze, ye bitter-biting frost ; 
Descend ye chilling, smothering snows; 
Not all your rage, as now, united, shows 
More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 
Yengeful malice unrepenting, 
Than heaven illumin'd man on brother man bestows ! 
See stern Oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad Ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 
Woe, Want, and Murder o'er the land ! 
Even in the peaceful rural vale, 
Truth weeping, tells a mournful tale, 
How pamper'd Luxury, Fiatt'ry by her side, 
The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
And eyes the simple rustic hind, 

Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, 
A creature of another kind, 
Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, 
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. 
Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, 






338 BURNS 5 WORKS. 

With lordly Honour's lofty brow, 

The power3 ye proudly own ? 
Is there, beneath Love's noble name, 
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden-innocence a prey 

To love pretending snares, 
This boasting Honour turns away, 
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, 
Eegardless of the tears, and unaviling pray'rs ! 
Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid nest, 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
And with a Mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast ! 

Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown ; 
111 satisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, 

Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 
While thro' the rugged roof and chinky wall, 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ! 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch, already crushed low 
By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow ? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss \f 

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 

Shook off the pouthery snaw, 
And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 

A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impressed my mind — 

Thro' all his works abroad, 
The heart benevolent and kind, 

The most resembles God. 



EPISTLE TO DAY1E. 

A BROTHER POET. 

January 
While winds fra aff Ben- Lomond blaw, 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

In hamely westlan' jingle, 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folk's gift, 

That live sa bein and snug : 



poems* 339 



I tent less, and want less 

Their roomy fireside ; 
But hanker and canker, 

To see their cursed pride. 

It's hardly in a body's pow'r 
To keep at times frae being sour, 
To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

An* ken na how to wair't : 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Tho' we hae little gear, 
We're lit to win our daily bread, 
As tang's we're hale and fier : 
* Mair speir na, nor fear na' 
Auld age ne'er mind a feg, 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only for to beg. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, 
When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then, content could make us blest ; 
E'en then sometimes we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile 
However fortune kick the ba', 
Has aye some cause to smile ; 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' : 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa'. 

What though like commoners of air, 
We wander out we know not where, 

But either house or hall % 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear. 
With honest joy our hearts will bound, 
To see the coming year, 

On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, 
And sing't when we hae done. 

It's no in titles nor in rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in making muckle mair ; 
It's no in books ; it's no in lear, 

To mak us truly blest ! 



340 BURNS 9 WORKS. 

If happiness hae not her seat 
And centre in the breast, 
"We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest ; 
ISTae treasures, nor pleasures, 

Could make us happy lang ; 
The heart aye's the part aye, 
That makes us right or wrang. 
Think ye that sic as you and I, 
Wha drudge and drive through wet an' dry, 

Wi' never ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while 1 
Alas ! how oft in haughty mood, 
God's creatures they oppress ! 
Or else neglecting a' that's guid, 
They riot in excess 1 
Baith careless and fearless 

Of either heav'n or hell ; 
Esteeming and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I here wha sit. hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth ; 
They let us ken oursel' ; 
They make us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 
Tho' losses and crosses, 

Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Te'll find nae other where. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 

(To say aught else wad wrang the cartes, 

And flatt'ry I detest ;) 
This life has joys for you and I I 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy; 

And joys the very best, 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart. 

The lover an' the frien' ; 
Ye have your Meg, your dearest part, 

And I my darling Jean, 

It warms me, it charms me, 
To mention but her name ; 

It heats me, it beets me, 
And sets me a' on flame ! 

O all ye Powers who rule above ! 
Thou, whose very self art love, 



POEMS. 



341 



Thou knowest my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, All-seeing, 

hear my fervent pray'r ; 
Still take her, and make her, 
Thy most peculiar care ! 
All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ; 
Long since this world's thorny ways 
Had numbered out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend, 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 
O, how that name inspires my style 1 
The words come skelpin' rank and file, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine, 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glow'rin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 
And then he'll hitch, and stilt, and jimp, 
An' rin an unco fit ; 

But lest then, the beast then, 

Should rue his hasty ride, 

I'll light now, and dight now 

His sweaty wizen'd hide. 



THE LAMENT. 

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OP A FRIEND'S AMOUR. 

Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself, 

And sweet Affection prove the spring of woe ! — Home. 

thou pale orb that silent shines, 

While care untroubled mortals sleep ! 
Thou seest a wretch that inly pines, 

And wanders here to wail and weep ? 
With woe I nightly vigils keep, 

Beneath thy wan un warming beam ; 
And mourn, in lamentation deep, 

How life and love are all a dream. 



342 BURNS' WORKS. 

1 joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly marked distant hill : 
I joyless view thy trembling horn 

Reflected on the gurgling rill : 
My fondly fluttering heart, be still ! 

Thou busy power, Remembrance, cease ! 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace ! 

No idly feign'd poetic pains, 

My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim ; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame ; 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft-attested Powers above ; 
The 'promised Father's tender name ; 

These were the pledges of my love ! 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptur'd moments flown ! 
How have I wish'd for Fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and her's alone ! 
And must I think it 1 is she gone, 

My secret heart's exulting boast ! 
And does she heedless hear my groan ] 

And is she ever, ever lost ! 

Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ! 

Her way may lie through rough distress ! 
Then, who her pangs and pains will sooth 1 

Her sorrows share, and make them less] 

Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly treasur'd thoughtse mploy'd. 
That breast how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n every ray of hope destroy'd, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

The morn that warns the approaching day, 

Awakes me up to toil and woe : 
I see the hours in long array, 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and may a throe, 

Keen recollection's direful train, 
Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, 

Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 
Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 

My toil-beat nerves, and tear- worn eye, 
Keep watchingg with the nightly thief : 



poems. 343 

if I slumber, fancy, chief, 
Reigns haggard wild, in sore affright : 
Ev'n day, all bitter, brings relief, 
From such a horror-breathing night. 

O ! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway 
Oft has thy silent- marking glance 

Observ'd us fondly wandering, stray : 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual kindling eye. 

Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set ! 

Scenes, never, never, to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' ; 
And hopeless, comfortless I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY. 

AN ©DE. 

Oppeess'd with grief, oppress'd with care, 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I sit me down and sigh ; 
O life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim backward as I cast my view, 
What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro* 
Too justly I may fear ! 
Still caring, despairing 

Must be my bitter doom ; 
My woes here shall close ne'er 
But with the closing tomb ! 

Happy, ye sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard ! 
Ev'n when the wished ends deny'd, 
Yet while the busy means are ply'd, 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope abandon'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night, 
And joyless morn the same ; 
You, bustling, and justling, 

Forget each grief and pain : 
I, listless, yet restless, 
Find ev'ry prospect vain, 



344 BURNS' WORKS. 

How blest the solitary's lot, 
Who, all- forgetting, all-forgot, 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly gather'd fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or haply, to his ev'ning thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream ; 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heav'n on high, 
As wand'ring, meand'ring, 
He views the solemn sky. 

Than I, no lonely hermit placed 
Where never human footstep traced, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move, 

With self-respecting art : 
But ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The Solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love or hate, 
Whilst I here must cry here, 
At ^perfidy ingrate ! 

Oh ! enviable, early days, 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchanged for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own : 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses, 

That active men engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all, 
Of dim declining age ! 



WINTER. 

A DIRGE. 

The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 



poems. 345 

And bird and beast in covert rest, 
And pass the heartless day. 

" The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," 

The joyless winter- day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join, 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Eecause they are Thy Will ! 
Then all I want (0, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign. 

THE 

COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED TO R. AITKEN, ESQ. 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 

The short but simple annals of the poor. — Gray. 

Mr loved, my honour'd, much respected friend, 

No mercenary bard his homage pays : 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end : 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : 
To you 1 sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester' d scene ; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 

What Aitken in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sough ; 

The short'ning winter- day is near a close; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose : 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee things, toddlin, stacher thro' 

To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee. 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wijie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
? o 



346 burns' works. 

Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
And makes Mm quite forget his labour an' his toil. 

Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out amang the farmers roun', 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town ; 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a bra' new gown, 

Or deposit her sair-won penny fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift- wing'd, unnotic'd fleet; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view, 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, 

Gars aula* claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's an' their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
' And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 

And ne'er tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play ; 
An' ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright !' 

But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door, 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convey her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild worthless rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 

A strap pin youth ; he taks the mother's e'e ; 
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 

But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; 
The mother wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 

O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heart felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round. 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
* If HeaVa a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 



POEMS. 



347 



One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.' 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny 's unsuspecting youth \ 
Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honour, virtue, conscience all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ! 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild] 

But now the supper crowns their simple board, 

The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food : 
The sowpe their only Raiokie does afford, 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood : 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck fell, 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 

The frugal wine, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 

The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 
The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : 

His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare : 

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And ' Let us worship God !' he says, with solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise ; 
Or plaintive Martyrs , worthy of the name : 
Or noble Elgin beets the heav'nward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high; 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amaleh's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 



348 BURNS' WORKS. 

How Be, who bore in Heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great BaVlon^s doom pronounced by Heaven's com- 
mand. 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope ' springs exulting on triumphant wing,' 

That thus they all shall meet in future days : 

There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor Eeligion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method and of art, 
"When men display to congregations wide, 

Devotion's ev'ry grace except the heart ! 
The Pov/r incensed the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well-pleased, the language of the soul : 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest; 
The parent pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
That Re who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
Would in the way his wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly in their hearts with (/race divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia s grandeur springs, 

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings 

" An honest man's the noblest work of God !" 
And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, 

Th ccottige leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! 

Scotia ! my dear, my native soil 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 

And, O ! may Heav'a their simple lives prevent 
From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile : 

Then, however crowns and coronets be rent. 



poems. 349 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Isle* 

Thou / who pour'd the patriotic tide, 

That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart : 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert; 

But still the patriot and the patriot lard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 

A DIRGE. 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spy'd a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 

Young stranger, whither wand'rst thou? 

Began the rev'rend sage ; 
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ! 
Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me to mourn 

The miseries of man ] 

The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 

W haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And ev'ry time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn. 

O man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Misspending all thy precious hours : 

Thy glorious youthful prime; 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, 

That man was made to mourn. 

Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might : 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported in his right ; 



350 BURNS' WORKS. 

But see him on the edge of life, 
With cares and sorrows worn, 

Then age and want, Oh ! ill match'd pair ! 
Show man was made to mourn. 

A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, Oh ! what crowds in every land, 

Are wretched and forlorn; 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn, 

That man was made to mourn. 

Many and sharp the num'rous ills, 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heav'n- erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn. 

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave — 

By Nature's law design'd, 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind ] 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty and scorn ] 
Or why has man the will and pow'r 

To make his fellow mourn % 

Yet let not this too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast : 
This partial view of human kind 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend, 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest, 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn : 
But Oh ! a blest relief to those 

That, weary-laden, mourn ! 



POEMS. 
A PRAYER. 

IN THE PROSPECT OP DEATH. 

O thou unknown Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun : 
As something loudly, in my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done ; 
Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me 

With passions wild and strong ; 
And list'ning to their witching voice 

Has often led me wrong, 

Where human weakness has come short, 

Or frailty stept aside, 
Do thou All Good / for such thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 
Where with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But Thou art good ; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



351 



STANZAS 

ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene 1 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms 1 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between : 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewed storms : 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms : 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode 1 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 

I tremble to approach an angry Gob, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 
Fain would I say, " Forgive my foul offence !" 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's sway ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan 1 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran ? 
Thou great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, 

Those headlong furious passions to confine ; 
For all unfit I feel my powers to be, 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ! 
aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine / 



352 BURNS' WORKS. 

- 

LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR 
LEFT THE FOLLOWING 

YERSES, 

IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. 

thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above, 

I know thou wilt me hear, 
When for this scene of peace and love, 

I make my prayer sincere. 
The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 

Long, long be pleased to spare, 
To bless his little filial flock, 

And show what good men are. 
She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears, 
bless her with a mother's joys, 

But spare a mother's tears ! 
Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 

In manhood's dawning blush ; 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 

Up to a parent's wish ! 
The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, 

Guide thou their steps alway ! 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 

O'er life's rough ocean driv'n, 
May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 

A family in Heav'n ! 



THE FIKST PSALM. ' 

The man, in life, wherever placed, 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 

Xor from the seat of scornful pride 

Casts forth his eyes abroad, 
But with humility and awe 

Still walks before his God. 
That man shall flourish like the trees 

Which by the streamlets grow ; 
The fruitful top is spread on high, 

And firm the root below. 
But he whose blossom buds in guilt 

Shall to the ground be cast, 
And like the rootless stubble, tost 

Before the sweeping blast. 

For why t that God, the good adore, 
Hath giv'n them peace and rest, 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



POEMS. 35 



A PKAYER 

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. 

O thou Great Being ; what thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure am I, that known to thee 

Are all thy works below. 

Thy creature here before thee stands ; 

All wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. 

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be, 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolves, 

To bear and not repine. 



THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF 

THE NINETIETH PSALM. 

thou, the first, the greatest Friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling-place ! 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand, 
Before this pond'rous globe itself 

Arose at thy command ; 

That pow'r which rais'd, and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unbeginning time, 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years, 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before thy sight, 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou gav'st the word : Thy creature, man, 

Is to existence brought : 
Again thou say'st, " Ye sons of men, 

Eeturn ye into nought." 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flow'r, 

In beauty's pride array'd ; 
But long ere night cut down, it lies 

All wither'd and decay 'd, 



354 



BURNS' works. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APBIL, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonny Lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi' spreckl'd breast, 
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble, birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 
Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield 
But thou beneath the random bield 

0' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stihMe-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sun- ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 
And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 
Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd, 
Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, 
Who long with wants and woes has striven, 
By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink, 
Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven,, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 



poems. 355 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date : 
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush 'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom ! 



TO RUIN. 

All hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word, 

The mightiest empires fall ! 
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring and pouring, 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Tho' thickening and black'ning, 
Round my devoted head. 

And thou grim power, by life abhorr'd 
While life a pleasure can afford, 
Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer : 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 

To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Resign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbbings cease, 
Cold mouldering in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more, 
To stain my lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



TO MISS L , 

WITH BBATTIE'S POEMS, AS A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT, JAN. 1, 1787. 

Again the silent wheels of time 

Their annual round have driv'n, 
And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 

Are so much nearer Heav'n. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts, 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts 

In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 

Is charg'd, perhaps, too true : 
But may, dear maid, each lover prove 

An Edwin still to you ! 



356 BURNS' WORKS. 

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 
MAY — , 1786. 

I lanq hae thought, my youthfu' Friend, 

A something to have sent you, 
Though it should serve nae other end 

Than just a kind memento ; 
But how the subject theme may gang, 

Let time and chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

Ye'll try the warld soon, my lad, 

And, Andrew, dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, 

And muckle they may grieve ye ; 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

E'en when yout end's attained ; 
An' a* your views may come to nought, 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 

I'll no say men are villains a' ; 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricked : 
But och, mankind are unco weak, 

An' little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake, 

It's rarely right adjusted ; 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should na censure, 
For still the important end of life 

They equally may answer; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak a neebor's part, 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 

Aye free afT han' your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursel' 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' every other man, 

Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o' weel plac'd love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it : 
I wave the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard of concealing, 
But och ! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling ! 



poems. 357 

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by every wile, 

That's justified by honour ; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Nor for a train attendant ; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, 

To hand the wretch in order ; 
But where you feel your honour grip, 

Let that aye be your border ; 
Its slightest touches, instant pause — 

Debar a* side pretences ; 
And resolutely keep its law3, 

Uncaring consequences. 

The great Creator to revere, 

Must sure become the creature ; 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

And ev'n the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended ! 

When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded ! 
Or, if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded : 
But when on life we're tempest driv'n, 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, 

Is sure a noble anchor. 

Adieu, dear amiable youth, 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting ; 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 

Erect your brow undaunting ! 
In ploughman phrase, ' God send you speed,' 

Still daily to grow wiser : 
And may you better reck the rede. 

Than ever did th' adviser ! 



ON A SCOTCH BARD, 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

A' ye wha live by soups o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo clink, 
A' ye wha live and never think, 

Come mourn wi' me 
Our oilliis gi'en us a' a jink, 

An' owre the sea. 

Lament him a' ye ran tin' core, 
Wha dearly like a random splore, 



358 BURNS' WORKS. 

Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, 

In social key ; 
For now he's ta'en anither shore, 
An* owre the sea. 

The bonnie lasses weel may miss him, 
And in their dear petitions place him : 
The widows, wives, an' a* may bless him, 

Wi' tearful' e'e ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him, 

That's owre the sea. 
O Fortune, they hae room to grumble ! 
Hadst thou ta'en aff, some drowsy bummel, 
Wha can do nought but fyke an* fumble, 

'Twad been nae plea; 
But he was gleg as ony wumble, 

That's owre the sea. 
Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear : 
'Twill mak' her poor auld heart, I fear, 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her laureate monie a year, 

That's owre the sea, 
He saw misfortune's cauld nore-wast 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast : 
A jillet brak' his heart at last, 

111 may she be ! 
So, took a berth afore the mast 

An' owre the sea. 
To tremble under Fortune's cummock, 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
Wi' his proud independent stomach 

Could ill agree ; 
So row't his hurdies in a hammock, 

An' owre the sea. 
He ne'er was gi en to great misguiding, 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding ; 

He dealt it free : 
The muse was a' that he took pride in, 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica lodies, use him weel, 
An' hap him in a cozie biel : 
Ye'll lind him aye a dainty chiel, 

And fu' o' glee : 
He wadna wrang'd the vera deil, 

That's owre the sea. 

Fareweel, my rhyme composing billie, 
Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
But ye may flourish like a lily, 

Now bonnilie ; 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea. 



poems. 359 

TO A HAGGIS. 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the puddinrace. 
Aboon them a* ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm : 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distill 

Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic labour dight, 
An' cut you up wi' ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright, 

Like onie ditch ; 
And then, what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin, rich ! 

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 
Till a' their weelswall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums : 
Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve, 

Bethanlit hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew, 

Wi' perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view, 

On sic a dinner 1 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 
As feckless as a wither'd rash, 
His spindle-shank a guid whip lash, 

His nieve a nit ; 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, 
O how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, 
The trembling earth resounds his tread, 
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it whissle ; 
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, 

Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants na skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies ; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

Gie her a Haggis I 



360 burns' works. 

A DEDICATION. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

Expect na, Sir, in this narration, 
A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, 
To rooze you up, an' ca' you guid, 
An' sprung o* great an' noble bluid, 
Because ye're surnamed like his Grace, 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tired — and sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu" lie, 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them wha 
Maun please the great folk for a wamef u' ; 
For me ! sae laigh I needna bow, 
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough 
And when I dinna yoke a naig, 
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg ; 
Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatt'rin , , 
It's just sic poet an' sic patron. 

The Poet, some guid angel help him, 
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him ; 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me) 
On eVry hand it will allowed be, 
He's just— nae better than he should be. 

I readily and freely grant, 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
What's no his ain he winna tak it, 
What ance he says he winna break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refuse't, 
Till aft his goodness is abused ; 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang ; 
As master, landlord, husband, father, 
He does nae fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that ; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature, 
Of our poor, sinfu' corrupt nature ; 
Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
Mang black Gentoos and Pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in need. 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of damnation ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain • 



POEMS. 361 

Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust i3 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

No, stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro a winnock frae a wh-re, 
But point the rake that taks the door : 
Be to the poor like onie whunstane, 
And haud their noses to the grunstane ; 
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ; 
No matter, stick to sound believing. 

Learn three mile pray'rs, an half-mile graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces ; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthened groan, 
An damn a' parties but your own ; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

ye wha leave the springs of Calvin 
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin ! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! 
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When ruin with his sweeping besom. 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him ; 
While o'er the harp pale Misery moans, 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me, 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, 
But I maturely thought it proper, 
When a' my works I did review, 
To dedicate them, Sir, to You : 
Because (ye needna tak it ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel'. 

Then patronize them wi' your favour, 
And your petitioner shall ever — 
I had amaist said ever pray, 
But that's a word I need na say : 
For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; 
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't ; 
But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, 
That kens or hears about you, Sir — 

" May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk / 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 

May K 's far honour'd name 

Lang beet his hymeneal flame, 






362 BURNS' WORKS. 

Till H s at least a dizen, 

Are frae her nuptial labours risen : 
Five bonnie lasses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual rays, 
Shine on the evening o' his days : 
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe, 
When ebbing life nae niair shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow !" 

I will not mind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary effusion ; 
But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest wi' Fortune's smiles and favours, 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent !) 
That iron-hearted carl, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances, 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances, 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, 
Make you as poor a dog as I am, 
Your humble servant then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor ! 
But by a poor man's hopes in Heaven ! 
"While recollection's power is given, 
If, in the vale of humble life, 
The victim sad of fortune's strife, 
I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 
Should recognize my master dear, 
If friendless low we meet together, 
Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and brother. 






TO A LOUSE, 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH. 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie 1 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace; 
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin', biastit wonner, 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an* sinner, 
How dare you set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner, 
On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 
Wi' ither kindred, jumpin' cattle, 

In shoals and nations : 



poems* 363 

Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle 
Your thick plantations. 

Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rils, snug an* tight : 
Na, faith ye yet ! yell no be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
The vera tapmost height tow'ring height 

0' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out 
As plump and grey as onie grozet ; 

for some rank, mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gi'e you sic a hearty dose o't, 

Wad dress your droddum ! 

1 wad na been surprised to spy 
You on an auld wife's flannen toy ; 
Or aiblin3 some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunar die, fie, 

How dare ye do't ! 
Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin', 
Thae winks and/?i#er ends,I dread, 

Are notice takin' ! 
O wad some power the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as others see us / 
It wad frae monie a blunder free us, 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 

And ev'n Devotion ! 



ADDKESS TO ED1NBUKGH. 
Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and towers, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sovereign powers ! 
From marking wildly scatter'd iiowers, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the lingering hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 
Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy trade his labours piles ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy ulod;. 

Thy sons, Edisa, social, kind, 
With open arms the stranger hail ; 



364 BURNS' WORKS. 

Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, 
Above the narrow, rural vale ; 

Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 
Or modest merit's silent claim; 

And never may their sources fail ! 
And never envy blot their name. 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy ] 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heav'ns beauties on my fancy shine : 
I see the sire of love on high, 

And own his work indeed divine ! 

There, watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar : 
Like some bold veteran grey in arms, 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pon'drous wall and massy bar, 

Grim- rising o'er the rugged rock : 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 

With awe- struck thought and pitying tears, 

1 view that noble, stately dome, 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Famed heroes, had their royal home 
Alas ! how changed the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ; 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia s bloody lion bore : 
E'en / who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply my sires have left their shed, 
And faced grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold following where your fathers led ! 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly scatter'd flowers, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray 'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter'd in thy honour'd shade. 






EPISTLE TO J. LAPKA1K. 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD, APRIL 1ST, 1785. 

While briers an' woodbines budding green, 
An' paitricks serai vhin loud at e'en 



poems. 365 



An' morning poussie whiddin seen, 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unknown frien' 

I pray excuse. 
On fasten- een we had a rockin' 
To ca' the crack, and weave our stockin' ; 
And there was muckle fun and jokin*, 

Ye need na doubt : 
At length we had a hearty yokin* 

At sang about. 
There was ae sang amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleased me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, 
What gen'rous., manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, ' Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark V 
They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About MuirkirJc. 
It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, 
And sae about him there I spiert, 
Then a' that ken't him, round declared 

He had ingine, 
That name excell'd it, few cam near't, 

It was sae fine. 
That set him to a pint of ale, 
An' either douce or merry tale, 
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel', 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' graith, 
Or die a cadger pownie's death, 

At some dyke back, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo jingle fell, 

Tho' rude an' rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's sel' 

Does weel eneugh. 

I am na poet, in a sense, 
But just a rhymer, like, by chance, 
An, hae to learning nae pretence, 

Yet, what the matter ? 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 



366 burns' works. 

Your critic folk may cock their nose, 
And say, ' How can you e'er propose, 
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 

To mak a sang V 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're may be wrang. 
What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools , 
If honest nature made you fools. 

What sairs your grammars 1 
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, 

Or knappin-hammers. 
A set o* dull conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak ; 
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek I 
Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire ! 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My muse, though namely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

for a spunk o' Allan's glee, 
Or Ferguson's, the bauld and slee, 
Or bright Lapraitis, my friend to be 

If I can hit it ! 
That would be lear eneugh for me ! 

If I could get it. 
Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few, 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist, 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

1 winna blaw about mysel ; 
As ill I like my faults to tell ; 

But friends, and folk that wish me well, 

They sometimes roose me. 

Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 

There's ae wee f ant they whyles lay to me, 
I like the lasses — Guid forgie me ! 
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me 

At dance or fair ; 
May be some iiker thing they gie me 

They weel can spare. 

But MaucliUne race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 
If we forgather, 



POEMS. 36? 

An' hae a swap o' rhyming' ware 

Wi' ane anither. 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 
An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; 
Syne well sit down an' tak our whitter, 

To cheer our heart ; 
An 5 faith, we'se be acquainted better 
Before we part. 

Awa, ye selfish warly race, 
Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, 
Ev'n love and friendship should give place 

To catch the placlc I 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

4 Each aid the others, 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 

My friends, my brothers !' 

But, to conclude my lang epistle, 
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle : 
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 

Who am most fervent, 
While I can either sing, or whissle, 

Your friend and servant. 



TO THE SAME. 
April 21, 1785. 

While new ca'd kye rout at the stake, 
An' pownies reek in pleugh or brake, 
This hour on e'ening's edge I take, 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest-hearted auld LapraiJc, 

For his kind letter. 

Forjesket sair, with weary legs, 
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten hours bite, 
My awkart-muse sair pleads and begs, 

I would na write. 

The tapetless ramfeel'd hizzie, 
She's saft at best, and something lazy, 
Quo' she, ' Ye ken ye've been sae busy 

This month an' mair, 
That troth my head is grown right dizzie, 

An' something sair/ 

Her dowff excuses pat me mad ; 
1 Conscience,' says I, ' ye thowless jad ! 
I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, 
This vera night ; 



368 burns' works. 

So dinna ye affront your trade, 

But rhyme it right. 

' Shall bauld Lapraik the king o' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms sae friendly, 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, 

An' thank him kindly !' 

Sae I gat paper in a blink, 
An' down gaed stumjrie in the ink : 
Quoth I, ( Before 1 sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it ; 
An' if ye winna mak' it clink, 

By Jove I'll prose it !' 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 

Let us mak proof ; 
But I shall scribble down some blether 
Just clean aff loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, 
Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp; 
Come, kittle up your moorland harp 

Wi 5 gleesome touch ! 
Ne'er mind haw Fortune waft and warp : 

She's but a b-tch. 

She's gien me monie a jirt and fleg, 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L — d, tho' I should beg, 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, 

As lang's I dow ! 

No comes the sax and twentieth simmer, 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer, 

Frae year to year : 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 

I, Rob, am here. 

Do you envy the city Gent, 
Behint a kist to lie and sklent, 
Or purse proud, big wi' cent per cent, 

And muckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A Bailie's name 1 

Or is't the paughty feudal thane, 
Wi' ruffled sark and glancin' cane, 
Wha thinks himself nae sheep-shank bane, 

But lordly stalks. 
While caps an' bonnets aff are taen, 
As by he walks ; 



poems 369 

* Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! 
Gie me o' wit and sense a lift, 
Then turn me if Thou please adrift 

Thro' Scotland wide : 
Wi' cits nor lairds I would not shift, 

In a' their pride !' 
Were this the charter of our state, 
' On pain o' hell be rich and great/ 
Damnation then would be our fate, 

Beyond remead ; 
But thanks to Heav'n ! that's no the gate 

We learn our creed. 
For thus the royal mandate ran, 
When first the human race began, 
' The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
Tis he fulfils Great Nature's plan, 

An' none but he ! 
mandate glorious and divine ! 
The followers o' the ragged Nine, 
Poor glorious devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light, 
While sordid sons of Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an growl, 
Their worthless nievefu' o' a soul 
May in some future carcase howl 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light 
Then may Lapraih and Burns arise, 
To reach their native, kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys, 

In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties, 

Each passing year, 



to w. s N/; 

OCHILTREE. 



May 1785. 



I gat your letter, winsome Willie : 
Wi' gratefu' heart 1 thank you brawlie ; 
Tho' I maun say't I wad be silly, 

An' unco vain, 
Should I believe, my coaxin' billie, 

Your natterin' strain. 

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it. 
1 sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire sidelins sklented 

On my poor musie ; 
Tho' in sic phrasin' terms ye've penn'd it, 
I scarce excuse ye. 
Q 5 



310 burns' works. 

My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but dare a hope to speel, 
Wi' Allan or wi' GilbertMd, 

The braes of fame ; 
Or Fergusson the writer chiel, 

A deathless name. 
(0 Fergusson / thy glorious parts 
111 suited law's dry musty arts, 
My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 

Ye E'nbrugh Gentry ! 
The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes, 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 
Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 
As whyles they're like to be my dead, 

(0 sad disease I) 
I kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gies me ease. 
Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, 
She's gotten poets o* her ain, 
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes all resound again 

Her well sung praise. 
!Nae poet thought her worth his while, 
To set her name in measured style ; 
She lay like some unkenned of isle 

Besides New-Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 

Ramsay an' famous Fergvsson 
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Boon, 

Xae body sings. 

Th' Illissus. Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu line ! 
But, Willie set your fit to mine, 

An' cock your crest, 
We'll gar our streams and burnies shine 

Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, 
Her moors red- brown wi' heather bells, 
Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, 
Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bure the gree as story tells, 

Frae southren billies. 

At Wallace' name what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 
By Wallace side, 



POEMS. 371 

Still pressing onward, red wat shod, 
Or glorious died. 

O sweet are Coila's haughs an woods, 
When lintwhites chant among the buds, 
An' jinking hares, in amorous whids, 

Their loves enjoy, 
While thro* the braes the cushat croods 

With wailfu' cry ! 
Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree, 
Or frost on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary grey ; 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day ! 
O Nature 1 a' thy shows an' forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
Whether the summer kindly warms 

Wi' life an' light, 
Or winter howls in gusty storms, 

The lang, dark night ! 
The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, 
Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, 
A down some trotting burn's meander 

An' no think lang, 

sweet, to stray, an' pensive ponder 

A heartfelt sang ! 
The warly race may drudge and drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive, 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum o'er their treasure. 

Fareweel, ' my rhyme- composing brither !' 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither, 
Now let us lay our heads thegither. 

In love fraternal : 
May Envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal. 

While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes; 
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies; 
While terra firma on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith and practice, 

In Robert Burns, 

P08TSCEIPT. 

My memory's no worth a preen, 

1 had amaist forgotten clean, 

Ye bade me write you what they mean 

By this new-light, 
'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been 

Maist like to fight. 



372 BURNS' WORKS. 

In days "when mankind were but callans 
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, 
They took nae pains their speech to balance, 

Or rules to gi'e, 
But spak their thoughts in plain braid lallans, 
Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the moon, 
Just like a sark, a pair o' shoon. 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 

Gaed past her viewing, 
An' shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new ane. 
This past for certain, undisputed : 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it ; 
An' ca'd it wrang ; 
An' muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud and lang. 
Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, 

An' out a' sight, 
An' backlins comin', to the leuk 

She grew mair bright. 
This was deny'd, it was affirm'd ; 
The herds and hissels were alarm'd ; 
The rev'rend grey- beards rav'd an storm'd; 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 
Than their old daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks : 
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks; 
An' monie a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt : 
An' some, to learn them for their tricks, 
Were hang'd an' burnt. 

This game was played in monie lands, 
An s auld lihrft caddies bure sic hands, 
That faith, the youngsters took the sands 

Wi' nimble shanks, 
Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, 
Sic bluidy pranks. 

But new light herds gat sic a cowe, 
Folk thought them ruined stiek-and-stowe, 
Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe, 

Ye'll find ane plac'd : 
An' some, their new-light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin'; 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin'; 
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin' 
Wi' girnin' spite. 



poems! 373 

To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on 
By word an' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the louns ! 
Some auld-light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons, 

To tak a flight, 
An* stay a month amang the moons 

An' see them right. 

Guid observation they will gi'e them ; 
An' when the auld moons gann to lea'e them, 
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch, 
An* when the new-light billies see them, 

I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a* this clatter 
Ts naething but a ( moonshine matter;' 
But tho' dull prose- folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope, we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE. 

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 

rough, rude, ready-witted Eankine, 
The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin' ! 
There's mony godly folks are thinkin', 

Your dreams an' tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin', 

Straight to auld ^Tick's. 

Ye ha'e sae monie cracks an' cants 
And in your wicked, drucken rants, 
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, 

An' fill them fou ; 
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 

Are a' seen thro'. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ; 
That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! 
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, 

The lads in black I 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Kives't aff their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, 
It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing 
0' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naething 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or I. 

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargain'd for an' mair; 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 
I will expect 



374 BURNS 1 WORKS. 

Yon sang, ye'll sen't wi' cannie care, 
And no neglect. 

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! 
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! 
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring, 

An' danc'd my fill ! 
I'd better gaen and sair'd the king 

At Bunker's HUL 

'Twas ae night lately in my fun 
I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 
An' brought a paitiick to the grun, 

A bonnie hen, 
And, as the twilight was begun, 

Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 
I straikit it a wee for sport, 
Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't ; 

But, deil-ma care ! 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale affair. 

Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note, 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat, 

An' pay't the/^. 

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
An' by my pouther au' my hail, 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 

I vow an' swear, 
Thy name shall pay o'er moor an' dale, 
For this, niest year. 

As soon's the clockiu' time is by, 
An' the wee poufcs begun to cry, 
Lord, I'se hae sportin' by an' by, 

For my gowd guinea : 
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye 

For't in Virginia. 

Trowth, they had meikle for to blame ! 
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, 
But twa- three draps about the wame, 

Scarce thro' the feathers; 
An' baith a yellow George to claim, 

An' thole their blethers ! 

It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; 
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair, 
But yennywortlis again is fair, 

When time's expedient : 
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 

Your most obedient. 



poems. 375 

JOHN BARLEYCORN. 

A BALLAD. 

There were three kings into the east, 

Three kings both great and high, 
An' they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn should die. 
They took a plough and plough'd him down, 

Put clods upon his head, 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, 

And show'rs began to fall : 
John Barleyeorn got up again, 

And sore surpris'd them all. 
The sultry suns of summer came, 

And he grew thick and strong, 
His head weel arra'd wi' pointed spears, 

That no one should him wrong. 
The sober autumn enter'd mild, 

When he grew wan and pale : 
His bending joints and drooping head, 

Show'd he began to fail. 
His colour sicken'd more and more, 

He faded into age ! 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage, 

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee : 
They ty'd him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

They laid him down upon his back, 

And cudgell'd him full sore ; 
They hung him up before the storm, 

And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim, 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 

They laid him out upon the floor, 

To work him further woe, 
And still as signs of life appear'd, 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

They wasted o'er a scorching flame, 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller used him worst of all, 

For he crus'd him between two stones. 

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood 

And drank it round and round ; 
And still the more and more they drank, 

Their joy did more abound. 



376 BtJRNS' WORKS. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise, 
For if yon do bnt taste his blood, 

'Twill make yonr conrage rise. 

'Twill make a man forget his woe ; 

'Twill heighten all his joy : 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 
Each man a glass in hand ; 

And may his great posterity 
$T'er fail in old Scotland ! 



A FRAGMENT. 
Tune— " G illicrankie ," 

When Guildford good our pilot stood, 

And did our helm thraw, man, 
Ae naight, at tea, began a plea, 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
An' did nae less,, in fall congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, man : 
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn, 

And Carleton did ca', man : 
But yet, what reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery- like did fa', man ; 
Wi' sword in hand,before his band, 

Amang his enemies a', man. 

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage. 

Was kept at Boston ha\ man; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 

For Philadelphia, man ; 
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin 

Guid Christian blood to draw, man ; 
But at New-Yorh, wi' knife and fork, 

Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. 

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, 

Till Fraser brave did fa', man : 
Then lost his way, ae misty day, 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought, 

An' did the buckskins claw, man ; 
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save 

He hung it to the wa', man. 

Then Montague, an Guildford too, 

Began to fear a' fa', man ; 
And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure^ 

The German chief to thraw, man ; 



poems. 377 

For Paddy Burlce, like onie Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box, 

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 

Then Rockingham took up the game; 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, 

Conform to gospel law, man, 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, 

They did his measures thraw, man, 
For North and Fox united stocks, 

And bore him to the wa', man. 

Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes, 

He swept the stakes awa', man, 
Till the diamond's ace of Indian race, 

Led him a s&ir faux pas, man : 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, 

On Chatham's hoy did ca', man ; 
And Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, 

" Up, Willie, waur them a', man !" 

Behind the throne then Grenville's gone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee JPundas arous'd the class 

Be-north the Roman wa', man : 
An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 

(Inspired bardies saw, man) 
Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, " Willie, rise ! 

Would I ha'e fear'd them a', man?' 

But word an' blow, North, Fox and Co. 

GowfTd Willie like a ba', man, 
Till Suthrons raise, and coost their claise 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
An* Caledon threw by the drone, 

An' did her whittle draw, man; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt and blood 

To mak it guid in law, man. 
* * * % 



SONG. 
" Corn Rigs are Bonnie." 
It was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie : 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

'Till tween the late and early, 
Wi' so) a' persuasion she agreed, 

To see me thro' the barley. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still, 
The moon was shining clearly ; 

I set her down, wi' right good will 
Amang the rigs o' barley. 



378 burns' works. 

I kent her heart was a' my ain ; 

I lov'd her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 
I lock'd her in my fond embrace 

Her heart was beating rarely ; 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moons and stars so bright, 

That shone that hour so clearly ! 
She aye shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear ; 

I hae been merry drinkin* ; 
I hae been joy fu' gath'rin gear; 

I hae been happy thinkin' : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubled fairly, 
That happy night was worth them a', 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

CHORUS. 

Corn rigs an' barley rigs, 
An' corn rigs are bonnie ; 

111 ne'er forget that happy night, 
Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 



SONG. 

COMPOSED IN AUGUST. 
Tune — " I had a Horse, I had nae mair." 
Now westlin' winds, and slaught'ring guns, 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather : 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night, 

To muse upon my charmer. 

The partridge loves the fruitful fells : 

The plover loves the mountains : 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells; 

The soaring hern the fountains : 
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 
Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine ; 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion : 
The sportsman's joy' the murd'ring cry. 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion ! 



poems. 379 



But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 

All fading green and yellow : 
Come let us stray our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature : 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

And ev'ry happy creature. 
We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and fondly prest, 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, 

Not autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thou to me, 

My fair, my lovely charmer ! 

SONG. 
Tune— " My Nannie, O." 
Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows. 

Mang moor3 an' mosses many, 0, 
The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 

And I'll awa to Nannie, 0. 
The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill ; 

The night's baith mirk and rainy, O 
But I'll got my plaid and out I'll steal, 

An' owre the hills to Nannie, O. 

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young ; 

Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, ; 
May ill befa' the flattering tongue 

That wad beguile my Nannie, O 
Her face is fair, her heart is true, 

As spotless as she's bonnie, O : 
The opening gowan, wet wi' dew, 

Nae purer is than Nannie, 0. 

A country lad is my degree, 

An' few there be that ken me, ; 

But what care I how few they be, 
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, 0. 

My riches a' s' my penny- fee, 
An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, 0. 

Our auld Guidman delights to view 

His sheep an* kye thrive bonnie, 0; 
But I'm as blithe that haud3 his pleugh, 

An' has nae care but Nannie, 0. 
Come weel, come woe, I care na by, 

I'll take what Heaven will sen' me, : 
Nae ither care in life have I, 

But live, an' love my Nannie, 0. 



380 burns' works. 

GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 

A FRAGMENT. 
CHORUS. 

Green grow the rashes, ! 

Green grow the rashes, ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, 

Are spent amang the lasses, ! 

There's nought but care on every han', 
In every hour that passes, ; 

What signifies the life o' man, 
An' 'twere na for the lasses, 0. 

Green grow, &c. 

The warly race may riches chase, 
An' riches still may fly them, ; 

An' though at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O, 
Green grow, &c. 

But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearie, ; 

An' warly cares, an' warly men, 
May a gae tapsalteerie, 0. 

Green grow, &c. 

For you so douse, ye sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, : 

The wisest man the warld e'er saw, 
He dearly loved the lasses, O. 

Green grow, &c. 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 

Her noblest work she classes, ; 

Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, 

And then she made the lasses, 0. 

Green grow, &c. 
* * * * * * 



SONG. 
Tune.— " Jockie's Grey Breeks." 

Again rejoicing Nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 

CHORUS. 

And maun I still on Menie doat, 

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e 1 

For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk, 
And it winna let a body be ! 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 
In vain to me the vi'iets spring ; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 
The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

And maun I still, &c. 



POEMS. 381 



The merry ploughboy cheere his team, 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks, 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 

And maun I still, &c. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is blest but I. 

And maun I still, &c. 

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorlands whistle shill, 

Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And maun I still, &c. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 
Blithe waukens by the daisy's side, 

And mounts and sings on fluttering wings, 
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 
And maun I still, &c. 

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 
And raging bend the naked tree ; 

Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 
When nature all is sad like me ! 

CHORUS. 

And maun I still on 2Ienie doat, 
And bear the scorn that's in her ee 1 

For it's jet black, and it's like a hau-J:, 
An' it winna let a body be* 



SOHG. 

Tune.— "Roslin Castle."' 
The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon murky cloud is foul wi' rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure, 
While here I wander prest wi' care, 
Along. the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The Autumn mourns her ripening corn 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky, 
She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, » 

I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

* We cannot presume to alter any of the poems of our bard, and more especially 
those printed under his own direction ; jet it is to be regretted that this chorus 
which is not his own composition, should be attached to these fine stanzas, as it 
perpetually interrupts, the train of sentiment which they excite, 



382 burns' works. 

'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore : 
Tho' death in every shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierced with many a wound ; 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

Farewell, old Coilds hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past unhappy loves ! 
Farewell, my friends, farewell, my foes ! 
My peace with these, my love with those — 
The bursting tears my heart declare, 
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr ! 



SONG. 
Tune— "Gilderoy." 

From thee, Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore ; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar, 
But boundless oceans roaring wide, 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee. 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adorn ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no more ! 
But the last throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 

And thine that latest sigh ! 






THE FAREWELL, 

TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE, TARBOLTON. 
Tune—" Good night and Joy be wi' you a' !" 
Adieu ! a heart- warm, fond adieu 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie I 
Ye favour' d, ye enlighten' d few, 

Companions of my social joy ! 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', 
With melting heart, and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, tho* far awa'. 

Oft have I met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful festive night; 

Oft honour'd with supreme command, 
Presided o'er the sons of light ; 



poems. 383 



And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa\ 
May freedom, harmony, and love, 

Unite you in the grand design. 
Beneath th' omniscient eye above, 

The glorious architect divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line, 

Still rising by the plummet's law, 
Till order bright completely shine, 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. 
And you, farewell ! whose merits claim, 

Justly that highest ladge to wear ! 
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, 

To masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request, permit me here, 

When yearly ye assemble a', 
One round, I ask it with a tear, 

To him, the lard that's far awa' / 



SONG. 
Tone.—" Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tavern let's fly." 
No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, 
No sly man of business contriving a snare, 
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 

I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; 

But a club of good fellows like those that are here, 

And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse ; 

There centum per centum, the cit with his purse ; 

But see you the crown, how it waves in the air, 

There, a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 

For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 

I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 

That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 

A letter inform' d me that all was to wreck ; 

But the pursy old landlord just waddl'd up stairs, 

With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

9 Life's cares they are comforts' — a maxim laid down 

By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown ; 

And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; 

For a big-belly'd bottle's a heaven of care. 

[^i Stanza added in a Mason Lodge.] 
Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow, 
The honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass and square 
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care. 






384 BURNS' WORKS. 

WRITTEN IN 

FRIERS CARSE HERMITAGE 

ON KITH-SIDE. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine every hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As youth and love with sprightly dance, 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grow3 warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh, 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale 1 
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale ? 
Check thy climbing step, elate, 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold, 
Soar around each cliffy hold, 
While cheerful peace, with linnet song, 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose : 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease. 
There ruminate with sober thought, 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought ; 
And teach the sportive younkers round, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fate, 
Is not, Art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge the one] 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thyself must shortly find, 
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 
There solid self-enjoyment lies; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 






poems. 385 



Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night where dawn shall never break, 
Till future life, future no more, 
To light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 
Stranger, go. — Heav'n be thy guide ! 
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. 



ODE. 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MJRS. OP 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation ! mark 
Who in widow- weeds appears, 
Laden with unhonoured years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 

STROPHE. 

View the wither'd beldam's face — 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace ? 

Not that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 

Pity's flood there never rose, 

See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 

Hands that took — but never gave. 

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 

Lo, there she goes, un pitied, and unblest ; 

She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest ! 

antistrophe. 
Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
(A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends,) 
Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends ? 
No fallen angel, hurPd from upper skies ; 
'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 
She, tardy hell- ward plies. 

EPODE. 

And are they of no more avail, 
Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a year] 
In other worlds can Mammon fail, 
Omnipotent as he is here ? 
O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 
While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! 
The cavelodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, 
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. 



ELEGY 

ON 

CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON 

But now his radiant course is run, 
For Matthew's course was bright ; 

His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless Heav »]y light I 



396 BURNS* WORKS. 

O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ; 

The meikle devil wi' a woodie 

Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, 

O'er hurcheon hides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 
He's gane, he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 
The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where haply, Pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd. 
Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, 

Where echo slumbers 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers ! 
Mourn ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies wimplin down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin din, 
Or foaming, Strang, wi' hasty sten3, 

Frae lin to lin. 
Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ; 
Ye stately fox-gloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie 

In scented bow'rs; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first o' flow'rs. 
At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at his head, 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 

1' th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, 

Come join my wail. 
Mourn ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; 

He's gane for ever ! 
Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals ; 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Kair for his sake. 
Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our caul d shore 



POEMS. 38? 

Te)\ thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, 
Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow*r, 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, 
Sets up her horn, 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrift morn ! 

rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ; 
An' frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, 

For him that's dead ! 

Thou, autumn, with thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air" 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 
Ke'er to return. 

O Henderson f the man, the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! 
And hast thou cross'd that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound ! 
Like thee, where shall I find another; 

The world around ! 

Go to your sculp fcur'd tombs, ye Great, 
In a' the tinsel trash of state ! 
But by the honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger! my story's brief; 

And truth I shall relate, man : 
I tell nae common tale o' grief, 

For Matthew was a great man. 



388 burns' works. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 

Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man ; 
A look of pity hither cast, 

For Matthew was a poor man. 
If thou a noble soldier art, 

That passest by his grave, man : 
There moulders here a gallant heart, 

For Matthew was a brave man. 
If thou on men, their works and ways, 

Canst throw uncommon light, man ; 
Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, 

For Matthew was a bright man. 
If thou at friendship's sacred ca', 

Wad life itself resign, man ; 
Thy sympathetic tear maun fa* 

For Matthew was a kind man. 
If thou art staunch without a stain, 

Like the unchanging blue, man, 
This was a kinsman o' thy ain, 

For Matthew was a true man. 
If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 

And ne'er guid wine did fear, man, 
This was thy billie, dam, and sire, 

For Matthew was a queer man, 
If ony waggish whingin sot, 
' To blame poor Matthew dare, man ; 

May dool and sorrow be his lot, 

For Matthew was a rare man. 



LAMENT ON MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, 

ON THE APPROACH OP SPRING. 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bowV 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild wi' many a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 
And nilk vlitcis theslae: 



poEMsi 389 

The meanest hind in fair Scotland, 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 
I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been ; 
Fu' lightly raise I in the morn, 

As blithe lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands 

And never ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman, 

My sister and my fae, 
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae ; 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 
My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine : 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That neer wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee ; 
And where thou meet's thy mother's friend, 

Remember him for me ! 
! soon, to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, 

Bloom on my peaceful grave. 

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq, 

OF FINTRA. 

Late crippled of an arm and now a leg 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg ; 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest ;) 
Will generous Graham list to his poet's wail 1 
(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,) 
And hear him curse the light he first survey'd 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade 1 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forest, and one spurns the ground : 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious guards his cell. 



390 burns' works; 

Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, 
In all the omnipotence of rule and power. — 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, 
The priest and hedge-hog in their robes are snug, 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts. 

But Oh'! thou bitter step-mother and hard, 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard ! 
A thing unteachable in world's skill, 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the opening dun ; 
No claws to dig, hi3 hated sight to shun ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : 
No nerves olfactory, Mammon's trusty cur, 
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur, 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 
He bears th' unbroken blast from every side : 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics— appall'd, I venture on the name, 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame ; 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ; 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear 
FoiTd, bleading, tortur'd, in unequal strife, 
The hapless poet flounders on through life, 
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired, 
And fled each muse that glorious once inspired, 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 
Dead even resentment for his injured page, 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage. 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceased, 
For half starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up ; 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, 
They only wonder, ■ some folks' do not starve. 
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 



POEMS. 391 

With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
And just conclude ' that fools are fortune's care/ 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
Strong on the sign- post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle muses' mad cap train, 
Not such the working of their moon struck brain; 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell. 

I dread the fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear; 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencaim, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Fled like the suneclips'd as noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 
O ! hear my ardent, grateful selfish pray'r ! 
Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown, 
And bright in cloudless skies hiss un go down ! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; 
Give energy to life ; and sooth his latest breath, 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death ! 



LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : 
Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, 

Laden with years and meikle pain, 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He leaned him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years ; 
His locks were bleached white wi' time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore their notes alang, 

u Ye scatter'd birds, that faintly sing, 

The relics of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; 
But nocht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

" I am a bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hald of earth is gane : 



392 burns' works. 

Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Kae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 
" I've see sae mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown , 
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrow share. 

And last, (the sum of a' my griefs !) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flower amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stay : 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
And hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever fled, 
" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of woe and wild despair ; 
Awake, resound thy latest lay, 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend, 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkeat gloom. 

" In poverty's low, barren vale, 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round : 
Tho' oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

ISTae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The friendless bard and rustic song, 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

" ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen gray with time ! 
Must thou, the noble, generous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
Why did I live to see that day ! 

A day to me so full of woe ! 
O ! had I seen the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

" The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done forme !" 



poems. 393 

LIKES, 

SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD, OP WHITEFORD, BART , WITH THE 
FOREGOING POEM. 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, 

Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st, 

To thee this votive offering 1 impart, 

" The tearful tribute of a broken heart." 

The friend thou valued'st, I the patron, lov'd; 

His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. 

We'll mourn till we too go as he is gone, 

And tread the dreary path to that dark world Unknown. 



TAM 0' SHANTER: 

A TALE. 

" Of Brownies and of Bogilis full is this Buke."— Gawin Dooglas. 
When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
As market days are wearing late, 
An* folk begin to tak the gate; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
An' gettin* fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 
That lie between U3 and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' JShanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honest men and bonny lasses.) 

Tarn I hads't thou but been sae wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market day thou was na sober : 
That ilka melder wi' the miller. 
Thou sat as long as thou had siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy'd that late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in JDoon ; 
Or catch M wi warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway's&uld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen'd sage advices, 

The husband frae the wife despises ! 
u 5 

. / 



394 burns' works; 

But to our tale : Ae market night, 
Tarn had got planted unco right, 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely : 
And at his elbow, souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; 
And aye the ale was growing better ; 
The landlady and Tarn grew gracious, 
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious ; 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy : 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : 
Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ! 
Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts for ever : 
Or like the borealis race, 
That flit ere you can point their place : 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form, 
Evanishing amid the storm. — 
Nae man can tether time or tide : 
The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the kej -stane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in, 
And sic a night he taks the road in, 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattlin* showers rose on the blast : 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd : 
That night a child might understand, 
The deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare Meg — 
A better never lifted leg — 
Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain,, and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirh Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry — 



poems. 395 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck bane, 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand themurder'd bairn : 
And near the thorn, abobn the well, 
Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel. 
Before him Boon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars through the wcods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirlc A lloway seem'd in a bleeze : 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing — 

. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn, 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn : 
Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil. — 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammies noddle, 
Fair play, he cared nae deils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
Till by the heeland hand admonish'd, 
She ventured forward on the light ; 
And vow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance, 
Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock bunker in the east ; 
There sat auld Nick in shape o' beast ; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge : 
He screw'd his pipes, and gart them i klrl, 
Till roof and rafters a* did dirl. — 
Coffins stood round, like open presses, 
That show'd the dead in their last d] es>es ; 
And by some devilish cantrip slight, 
Each in his cauld hand held a light, 
By which heroic Tam was able 
To note upon the holy table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
Twa span lang, wee unchristen'd bairns ; 
A thief new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp, his gab did gape : 
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; 
A garter which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The gray hairs yet stuck to the heft ; 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 



396 BURNS' WORKS. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curions, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious ; 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark ! 

2STow Tarn, Tam ! had they been queens 
A' plump an strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o'creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gien them aff my hurdies ! 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams auld and droll, 
Bigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Lowping and flinging on a crummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu 1 brawlie, 
Thare was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrich shore ! 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country side in fear,) 
Her cutty sark o' Paisley harn, 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude though sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie, — 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she cooft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches,) 
Wad ever graced a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour ; 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r : 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang,) 
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
And thought his very een enrich'd : 
Ev'n Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain, 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither, 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty sark !" 
And in an instant all was dark ; 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

Ae bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke; 



POEMS. 

As open pussie's mortal foes, 

When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 

As eager runs the market crowd, 

When " Catch the thief !" resounds aloud ; 

So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi' monie an eldritch screech and hollow. 

Ah, Tarn, Ah, Tam, thoul't get thy fairin, 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
Kate soon will be a woefu* woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane* of the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought aff her master hale, 
But left behind her ain grey tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

£%>w, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty sarks run in your mind, 
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
Eemember Tam o' Shanter's mare. 



397 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HAKE LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JCST SHOT AT. 

Inhuman man, curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ! 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 
Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little that of life remains ; 
No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains, 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 
Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 
Oft as by winding Nith, I musing wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 
And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. 
* It is a well known fact, that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to fol- 
low a poor wight any farther than the middle of the next running stream.— Tt 
may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls 
in with bogles, whatever danger there may be in his going forward, there is much 
more hazard in turning back. 



398 burns' works. 

ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 

ON CBOWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. 

While Yirgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 

Unfolds her tender mantle green, 
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 

Or tunes Eolian strains between : 

While Summer, with a matron grace, 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 

By Tweed erects his aged head, 
And sees, with self-approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fed : 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills where classic Yarrow flows, 
Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 

Or sweeping wild, a waste of snows : 

So long, sweet Poet of the year, 
Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won : 

While Scotia, with exulting tear, 
Proclaims that Thomson washer son. 



EPITAPHS, 



ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. 

Here souter John in death does sleep ; 

To hell, if he's gane thither, 
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 

He'll haud it weel thegither. 



ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

O Death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch 

Into thy dark dominion ! 



ON WEE JOHNNY. 

Hie jacet wee Johnny. 

Whoe'er thou art, reader, know, 
That death has murder'd Johnny, 

An' here his body lies fu' low — 
For saul he ne'er had ony. 

FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 

O Ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 
Draw near with pious rev'rence, and attend ! 

Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 
The tender father and the gen'rous friend. 



poems, 399 

The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride ; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

" For evn his failings lean'd to virtue's side." 



FOR R. A., Esq. 

Know thou, stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name ! 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



FOR G. H. Esq. 

The poor man weeps — here G n sleeps, 

Wham canting wretches blam'd : 

But with such as he, where'er he be, 
May I be saved or d d. 



A BARD'S EFITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song, 
Who noteless, steals the crowds among, 
That weekly this area throng, 

0, pass not by ! 
But, with a frater- feeling strong, 

Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, through the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below, 
Was quick to learn and wise to know, 
And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer flame, 
But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stain'd his name I 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkly grubs this earthly hole, 

In low pursuit : 
Know, prudent, cautious, self- control, 

Is wisdom's root, 



400 BURNS' WORKS. 

ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S 

PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, 
COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OP THAT KINGDOM. 

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's ; 
If there's a hole in a' your eoats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield's aniang you, taking notes, 

And, faith, he'll prent it. 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 
Upon a fine, fat fodgel wight, 
0' stature short, but genius bright, 

That's he, mark weel — 
And vow ! he has an unco slight 
0' cauk and keel. 
By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* 
Or kirk, deserted by its riggin, 
It's ten to ane yell find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, L — d safe's ! colleaguin' 
At some black art. 
Ilk ghaisfc that haunts auld ha' or chamer, 
Ye gipsy gang that deal in glamor, 
And you deep-read in hell's black grammar, 

Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 
Ye midnight bitches. 
It's tauld he was a scdger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled : 
But now he's quat the sportle blade, 
And dog skin wallet, 
And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade. 
• I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : 
Rusty aim caps and jingiin' jackets, | 
Wad baud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid : 
And parritch pats, and auld saut-backets, 

Before the Flood. 
Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender : 
That which distinguished the gender 

0' Balaam's ass ; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 
Forbye he'll shape you aff, fu" gleg, 
The cut of Adam's philibeg : 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig. 

He'Jl prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang&ail gullie. — 

* Vide his Antiquities of Scotland. 
f Vide his treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapons. 



POEMS. 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then sit bim down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him, 
And port, port / shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see him ! 
Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose : 
Thou art a dainty chiel, Grose ! — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, Shame fa' thee 1 



401 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, 

A VERY YOUNG LADY, WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAP OP A BOOK, PRE- 
SENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming on thy early May, 
Never may'st thou, lovely flower, 
Chilly shrink in sleety shower ! 
Never Boreas' hoary path, 
Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights, 
Taint thee with untimely blights ! 
Never, never reptile thief 
Eiot on thy virgin leaf ! 
Nor ever Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! 
May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Eichly deck thy native stem ; 
Till some ev'ning, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm, 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 
Shed thy dying honours round, 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 



SONG. 
Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 

And waste my soul with care ! 
But ah I how bootless to admire, 

When fated to despair ! 

Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair, 
To hope may be forgiv'n ; 

For sure 'twere impious to despair, 
So much in sight of Heav'n. 



ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, 

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, Esq, 
Sad thy tale thou idle page, 
And rueful thy alarms ; 



402 BURNS' WORKS. 

Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 
Sweetly deck'd with pearl dew, 

The morning rose may blow ; 
But cold successive noontide blasts 

May lay its beauties low. 
Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smil'd ; 
But long ere noon, succeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 

That nature finest strung ; 
So Isabella's heart was form'd, 

And so that heart was wrung. 
Dread Omnipotence, alone, 

Can heal the wound he gave ; 
Can point the brimful grief- worn eyes 

To scenes beyond the grave. 
Virtuous blossoms there shall blow, 

And fear no withering blast ; 
There Isabella's spotless worth 

Shall happy be at last. 



HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER. 
TO THE NOBLE DUKE OP ATHOLE. 

My Lord, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain ; 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus, scorching beams, 

In flaming summer pride, 
Dry-withering, waste my foaming streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 
The lightly jumping glowrin trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; 
If hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow, 
They're left the whitening stanes amang, 

In gasping death to Wallow. 
Last day I grat, wi' spite and teen, 

As poet B came by, 

That, to a bard I should be seen, 

Wi' half my channel dry ; 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Even as I was he shor'd me : 
But had I in my glory been, 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 
Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 



POEMS. 403 

There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, although I say't mysel, 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, 

And bonnie spreading bushes ; 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks, 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Keturn you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 
I The mavis wild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow ; 

This too, a covert shall insure, 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy form ; 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 

To weave his crown of flowers ; 
Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat, 

From prone descending showers. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty idle care : 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heaven to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here, haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain, grey ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild chequering thro' the trees, 
Rave to my darkly dashing stream, 

Hoarse swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-bending in the pool, 

Their shadows' watery bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest, 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 



404 



BURNS* WORKS. 

And, for the little songster's nest, 
The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land ! 
So may, thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

To social flowing glasses, 
The grace be — " Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lassies !" 






ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL, 

IN LOCH-TURIT J 
A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OP OCHTERTTRE. 

Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
For me your watery haunt forsake, 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
Busy food, or wanton lave ; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace, 
Man, your proud, usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below ; 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below, 
In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong necessity compels. 
But man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying heav'n, 
Glorious in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to wand'ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays ; 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might, 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn : 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Other lakes and other springs ; 






POEMS. 405 



And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OP THE INN AT KENMORE, 

TAYMOfTH. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, 

These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 

O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 

Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, 

My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 

Till fam'd Breadalbane open to my view, 

The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, 

The woods, wild, scatter'd, clothe their ample sides, 

Ah' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills, 

The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 

The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 

The palace rising on his verdant sides, 

The lawns wood- fringed in Nature's native taste; 

The hillocks dropt in Nature's, careless haste ! 

The arches striding o'er the new-born stream ; 

The village, glittering in the moon tide beam — 

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 

Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell : 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 

The incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods — 

Here Poesy might wake her heav'n taught lyre, 

And look through nature with creative fire ; 

Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconciled, 

Misfortune's lighten 'd steps might wander wild : 

And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 

Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds : 

Here heart-struck Grief might heaven- ward stretch her scan, 

And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



WEITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

STANDING BY THE FALL OTf FXERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 

The roaring Eyers pours his mossy floods : 

Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 

Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. 

As high in air, the bursting torrents flow, 
As deep recoiling surges foam below, 
Prone down the rock the whitening shoot descends, 
And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends, 
Dim- seen, through mists, and ceaseless showers, 
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding lowers. 
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, 
And still below, the horrid caldron boils — 



406 BURNS 5 WORKS. 

ON THE BIRTH OP A 

POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMIL7 DISTRESS. 

Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 

And ward o' mony a prayer, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 
November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree, 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 
May He who gives the rain to pour, 

And wings the blast to blaw, 
Protect thee frae the driving shower, 

The bitter frost and snaw ! 
May He, the friend of woe and want, 

Who heals life's various stounds, 
Protect and guard the mother plant, 

And heal her cruel wounds ! 
Bat late she flourish' d, rooted fast, 

Fair on the summer morn ; 
Now feebly bends she in the blast, 

Unshelter'd and forlorn. 
Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 

UnscathM by ruffian hand ! 
And from thee many a parent stem 
Arise to deck our land ! 



THE WHISTLE : 

A BALLAD. 

As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curious, I shall here give it— 
In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland, with our James the 
Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and of great 
prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle 
which, at the commencement of the orgies, he laid on the table, and whoever was 
last able to blow it, everybody else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, 
was to carry off the Whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced creden- 
tials of his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stock- 
holm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts of Germany : and chal- 
lenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of 
acknowledging their inferiority. After many overthrows on the part of the 
Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor to 
the present worthy baronet of that name ; who, after three days and three nights 
hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table, 

And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards lost the Whistle to 
Sir Riddel of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's.— On Friday, 
the IGth of October, 1760, at Friars Carse, the Whistle was once more contended 
for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton; 
Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Wal- 
ter Riddd, who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had continued; and 
Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir 
Robert ; which last gentleman carried off the hard won honours of the field. 

I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, 
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king, 
And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. 



POEMS. 40? 

Old Loda*, still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall — 
* This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er, 
And drink them to hell, Sir ! or ne'er see me more !" 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventur'd, and what champions fell ; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Till Eobert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor god- ship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Eobert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd ; 
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd ; 
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again haverenew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw; 
Craigdarrocb, so famous for wit, worth, and law ; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the man. 

" By the gods of the ancients," Glenriddel replies, 
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er/* 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, 
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his friend, 
Said, Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field, 
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care; 
But for wine and for welcome not moreknown to fame , 
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray ; 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy ; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, 
And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, 
And vowed that to leave them he was quite forlorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 
♦See Ossian'9 Caric-thura. 




408 BURNS' WORKS. 

Six bottles a piece had well wore out the night, 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; 
A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; 
But who can with fate and quart bumpers contend 1 
Though fate said — a hero should perish in light; 
So uprose bright Phcehus — and down fell the knight. 

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink ; — 
" Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink ; 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme 
Come — one bottle more — and have at the sublime ! 

« Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom with Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce ; 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day !" 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAYIE, 

A BROTHEB POET. 
ATTLD NEEBOR, 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld farrent, frien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak so fair : 
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter, 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your el buck jint and diddle, 
Tae cheer you through the weary widdle 

0' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld grey hairs. 
But Davie, lad, I'll red ye'er glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit ; 
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be lickit 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hans as you sud ne'er be faikit, 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus brink, 

Rivin' the words tae gar them clink ; 

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't we' drink, 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think, 

Braw sober lessens. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Common' me to the bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

Q' rhymin' clink. 



POEMS. 409 

The devil-haet, that I sud ban, 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme of livin' ; 
Nae cares to give us joy or grievin' : 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

An' while ought's there, 
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

An' fash nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! its aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud tae the Muse, my dainty Davie : 
The warl' may play you mony a shavie ; 
But for the Muse, she'll ne'er leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae poor, 
Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door tae door. 



ON MY EAKLY DAYS. 

I mind, it weel in early date, 

When I was beardless, young, and blate, 

An' first could thresh the barn ; 
Or haud a yokin o' the pleugh ; 
An' tho' forfoughten sair-eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn ; 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckon'd was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing, and clearing 

The tither stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an' haivers, 
Wearing the day awa. 

E'en then a wish, I mind its pow'r, 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast, 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake 
Some usefu' plan or book could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, 
An' spared the symbol dear : 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise, 

8 





410 BtJRNS' WORKS. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right an' rang, 

Wild floated in my brain : 
'Till on that har'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core, 

She rous'd the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pauky e'en 
That gart my heart-strings tingle 
I fired, inspired, 

At every kindling keek, 
But bashing, and dashing, 
I feared aye to speak. 



SONG. 

Tune— ,J Bonnie Dundee.'* 

In Mauchline there dwells six proper young Belles, 

The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a', 
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, 

In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a' 
Miss Miller is fine, Miss Maryland's divine, 

Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw : 
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton, 

But Armour's* the jewel for me o' them a' 



OH THE DEATH OF 

SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, 

Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave ; 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air, 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. * 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, 
Once the loved haunts of Scotia's royal train ; 

Or mused where limpid streams once hallow'd, well, 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks, 
The clouds, swift- wing'd, flew o'er the starry sky, 

The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 
And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately form, 

In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 
'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd ; 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

* This is one of our Bard's early productions, Armour is now Mrs, Burns. 



POEMS. 411 

Reversed that spear, redoubtable in war, 

Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, 
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 

And braved the mighty monarchs of the world.— 
"My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" 

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; 
" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, 

Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride ! 
"A weeping country joins a widow's tear, 

The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; 
The drooping arts around their patron's bier, 

And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh. 

" I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ! 
But, ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid the guardian low. — 

" My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 

While empty greatness saves a worthless name ! 
No ; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 

And future ages hear his growing fame. 
" And I will join a mother's tender cares, 

Thro* future times to make his virtues last, 
That distant years may boast of other Blairs" — 

She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast. 



WRITTEN 

ON THE BLANK LEAP OF A COPY OP THE POEMS, PRESENTED 
TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED. 

Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear, 
Sweet early object of my youthful vows, 

Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere, 
Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows.— 

And when you read the simple artless rhymes, 
One friendly sigh for him, .he asks no more, 

Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, 
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 

A CANTATA. 



REOITATIV©. 

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, 
Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, 
And infant frosts begin to bite, 

In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
Ae night at e'en a merry core, 

0' randie, gangrel bodies, 
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, 

To drink their orra daddies ; 



412 burns' works. 

Wi' quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted and they sang ; 
Wi' jumping and thumping, 
The vera girdle rang. 
First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm — 

She blinket on her sodger : 
An' aye he gies the tousie drab 

The tither skelpin' kiss, 
While she held up her greedy gab 
Just like an a'mous dish. 
Ilk smack did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whip, 
Then staggering and swaggering 
He roar'd this ditty up — 

AIR. 
Tune— " Soldier's Joy." 
I am a son of Mars who have been in many wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, 
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 
My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram ; 
I served out my trade when the gallant game was play'd, 
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 
I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries, 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, 
I'd clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

And now tho' I must beg with a wooden arm and leg, 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my callet, 
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 
What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks often times for a home, 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattans backward leuk, 

And seek the becmost bore; 
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirl'd out encore ! 



POEMS. 413 

But up arose the martial chuck, 
And laid the loud uproar. 

AIR. 

Tone.—" Soldier Laddie." 

I onoe was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons, was my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
Transported 1 was with my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church, 
He ventur'd the soul, and I risked the body, 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &e. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at Cunningham fair ; 
His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, 
My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

And now I have liVd — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady, 

Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent sae weel to cleek the sterling, 
For monie a pursie she had hooked, 
And had in mony a well been ducked. 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa'. the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 

AIR. 

Tone.— " O an ye were dead Gudeman." 

A highland lad my love was born, 
The Lalland laws he held in scorn ; 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 



414 burns' works. 

CHORUS. 

Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman ! 
Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, 
An' gude claymore down by his side, 
The ladies hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lalland face he feared none, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast : 
My curse upon them every one, 
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, fcc 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, 

Her strappan limb and gausy middle 

He reach'd nae higher, 
Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle, 

An' blawn't on tire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e, 
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, 
Then in an Arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set off wi 1 Allegretto glee 

His giga solo. 

AIR. 
Tune.—*' Whistle owre the lave o't." 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
An' go wi 1 me to be my dear, 
An' then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o% 



POEMS. 415 



CHORUS. 



I am a fiddler to my trade, 
An* a* the tunes that e'er I play'd, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
Was whistle owre the lave o't. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
An' ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
We'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle o'er the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke, 
An' sun oursels about the dyke, 
An' at our leisure, when we like, 
We'll whistle o'er the lave o't 
I am, &c. 

But bless me wi' your heaven o' charms, 
And 'while I kittle hair on thairms, 
Hunger, cauld, an' a' sick harms, 
May whistle o'er the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, 

As weel as poor Gutscraper ; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a rusty rapier — 
He swoor by a' was swearing worth, 

To speet him like a pliver, 
Unless he would from that time forth, 

Relinquish her for ever. 

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 
But though his little heart did grieve, 

When round the tinkler prest her, 
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, 

When thus the caird address'd her. 

AIR. 
Tune.—" Clout the Cauldron." 

My bonnie lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station ; 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation. 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd 

In many a noble squadron : 
But vain they search'd, when off I march'd 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

I've ta'en the gold, &c. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 
Wi' a' his noise an' caprin', 






416 BURNS' WORKS. 

An' tak' a share wi' those that bear 

The budget an' the apron. 
An' by that stowp, my faith and houp, 

An' by that dear Keilbagie, 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er weet my craigie. 

An' by that stowp, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

The caird prevail'd — the unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi' love o'er come sae sair, 

Ac' partly she was drunk. 
Sir Yiolino, with an air 

That show'd a man of spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair, 

An' made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shatt 

That play'd a dame a shavie, 
The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, 

Tho' limping with the spavie, 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft, 

An' shor'd them Daintie Davie 
boot that nigh. 

He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Though Fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had no wish but — to be glad, 

Nor want but — when he thirsted ; 
He hated nought but — to be sad, 

And thus the Muse suggested, 

His sang that night. 

AIR. 
Tune— " For a' that, an' a' that/' 

I am a bard of no regard, 

Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that ; 
But Homer-like, the-glowran byke, 

Frae town to town I draw that. 

CHORUS. 

For a' that, an' a' that ; 

An' twice as meikle's a' that ; 
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', 

I've wife enough for a' that. 

I never drank the Muse's stank, 

Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; 
But there it streams, and richly reams, 

My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, &c. 



POEMS. 41 J 

Great love I bear to a* the fair, 

Their humble slave, an' a' that ; 
But lordly will, I hold it still 

A moral sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, &c. 
In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 

Wi' mutual love an' a* that ; 
But for how lang theflie may stang, 

Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &e. 
Their tricks and craft have put me daft, 

They've ta'en me in an' a' that : 
But clear your decks, and here's the sex! 

I like the jads for a' that. 

" For a' that, an' a' that, 

An' twice as meikle's a' that ; 
My dearest bluid, to do them guid, 

They're welcome till't for a' that. 

RECITATIVO. 

So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 
They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd their duds, 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench their lowan drouth. 

Then owre again, the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request, 
To loose his pack an' wale a sang, 
A ballad o* the best : 
He rising, rejoicing, 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, an' found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 

AIR. 
Tune— " Jolly Mortals fill your Glasses." 

See ! the smoking bowl before us, 

Mark our jovial ragged ring ! 
Round and round take up the chorus, 

And in raptures let us sing. 

CHORUS. 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest. 

What is title ? what is treasure] 

What is reputation's care ] 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter hoic or « here ! 
A fig, &c. 



413 BURNS' WORKS. 

With the ready trick and fable, 

Round we wander all the day ; 
And at night, in barn or stable, 

Hug our doxies on the hay. 
A fig, &c. 

Does the train- attended carriage 
Through the country lighter rove 1 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love 1 
A fig, &c. 

Life is all a variorum, 

We regard not how it goes ; 
Let them cant about decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 
A fig, &c. 

Here's to the budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here's our ragged brats and collets I 4 

One and all cry out, Amen ! 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest. 

THE KIRK'S ALARM. 

A SATIRE. 

Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe in John Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 

There's a heretic blast has been blawn in the wast, 
That what is no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac, Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack, 

To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 
To join faith and sense upon ony pretence, 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare, 

To meddle wi' mischief a brewing ; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, 

And orator Bob is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child, 

And your life like the new driven snaw, 
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye, 

For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 

Rumble John, Rumble John, mount the steps wi' a groan, 

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like adle, 

And roar every a 9fce of the damn'd. 

Simper James, Simper James, leave the fair Killiedames, 

There's a holier chace in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead, 

For puppies like you there's but few. 



POEMS. 419 

Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney, are ye herding the penny, 

Unconscious what evils await ; 
Wi* a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, 

For the foul thief is just at your gate. 
Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld, 

A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; 
Tho 1 ye can do little skaith, yell be in at the death, 

And if ye canna bite ye may bark. 
Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do muster, 

The corps is no nice of recruits : 
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast, 

If the ass was the king of the brutes. 
Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, ye ha'e made but toom roose, 

In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L — d's haly ark ; 

He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in't, 
Poet Willie, Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley, 

Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit ; 
O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride, 

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t. 
Andro Gouk, Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book, 

And the book not the waur let me tell ye ; 
Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig, 

And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value. 
Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, what mean ye? what mean ye? 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 
Ye may ha'e some pretence to havins and sense, 

Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 
Irvine side, Irvine side, wi' your turkey-cock pride, 

Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will allow, 

And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. 
Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock, when the L— d makes a rock, 

To crush Common Sense for her sins, 
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit, 

To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 
Holy Will, Holy Will, there was wit in your skull, 

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor; 
The timmer is scant, when ye're ta'en for a saint, 

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp 'ritual guns, 

Ammunition ye can never need ; 
Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther enough, 

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest- skelping turns, 

Why desert ye your auld native shire ; 
Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie, 

She could ca' us na waur than we are. 

THE TWA HERDS. 
O a' ye pious godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pasture's orthodox, 



420 burns' works. 

Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes, 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, 
About the dykes 1 
The twa best herds in a* the west, 
That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, 
These five and twenty simmers past, 

O ! dool to tell, 
Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast, 

Atween themsel. 

0, M y, man, and worthy R 11, 

How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle, 

And think it fine ! 
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, 

Sin' I ha'e min\ 
O, Sirs, whae'er wad hae expeckit, 
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit. 
Ye wha were ne'er by laird respeckit, 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' M y's llock could rank, 

Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd eoor Arminian stank, 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear they drank, 

O sic a feast ! 
The thummart, wil'cat, brock and tod, 
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, 
He smelt their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in, 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin. 

What herd like R II, tell'd his tale, 

His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, 

O'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were sick or hale, 

At the first sight. 
He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, 
Or nobly fling the gospel club, 
And new-light herd3 could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin, 
Could shake them o'er the burning dub : 

Or heave them in. 
Sic twa — ! do I live to see't, 
Sic famous twa should disagreet, 
An' names, like villain, hypocrite, 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
While new-light herds wi' laughin' spite, 

Say n either 's Jiein' { 



POEMS. 

A* ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 

There's D n, deep, and P s, shard, 

But chiefly thou, apostle A — d 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, 

Till they agree. 
Consider, Sirs, how we're beset, 
There's scarce a new herd that we get, 
But comes frae 'mang that cursen set, 

I winna name, 
I hope frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

D e has been lang our fae, 

M* 11 has wraught us meikie wae, 

And that curs'd rascal ca'd M' e, 

And baith the S s, 

That aft ha'e made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld W — w lang has hatch'd mischief, 
We thought aye death wad bring relief, 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef; 

I meikie dread him. 

And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turn-coats amang oursel, 

There S— h for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill, 

And that yell fin'. 

O ! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 

Come join your counsel and your skills, 

To cow the lairds, 
And get the brutes the power themsels, 

To chose their herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
And learning in a woody dance, 
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, 

M' H's close nervous excellence, 

M'Q — e's pathetic manly sense, 

And guid W- h, 

Wi' S — th, wha thro' the heart can glance, 

May a' pack aff. 



421 



THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND. 
Curs' d be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife, 



422 burns' works. 

Who has no will but by her high permission ; 
Who has not sixpence but in her possession ; 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart ; 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b — h. 



ELEGY OST THE YEAR 1788. 

For lords or kings I dinna mourn, 
E'en let them die — for that they're born ! 
But, oh, prodigious to reflect, 
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events ha'e taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft U3 ! 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint ahead, 
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ; 
The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
An' our guidwife's wee birdy cocks ; 
The tane is game, a bluidy devil, 
But to the hen-birds unco civil ; 
The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin', 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden ! 

Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit, 
An' cry till ye be hearse an' rupit ; 
For Eighty-eight, he wish'd you weel 
An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; 
E'en mony a plack, an' mony a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! 

Ye bonnie lasses dight your een, 
For some o' you hae tint a frien' ; 
In Eighty eight, ye ken, was ta'en 
What ye'll ne'er hae to gi'e again. 

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, 
How dowff an' dowie now they creep ; 
Kay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, 
For Embro' wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty-nine thou's but a bairn, 
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care, 
Thou now has got thy daddy's chair, 
Kae hand-cufFd, mizzled, haff-shackl'd Regent, 
But, like himsel', a full free agent. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man ! 
As meikle better as you can, 

January 1, 1789. 



POEMS. 
VERSES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON. 

We cam na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise, 
But only, lest we gang to hell, 

It may be nae surprise : 
But when we tirl'd at your door, 

Your porter dought na hear us ; 
Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come 

Your billy Satan sair us 1 



423 



LIKES WRITTEN BY BURNS, 

WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO J— N R — K — N., AYRSHIRE, AND FOR- 
WARDED TO HIM IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE POET'S DEATH. 

He who of R — k— n sang, lies stiff and dead, 
And a green grassy hillock hides his head ; 
Alas I alas ! a devilish change indeed ! 

At a meeting of the Dumfries-shire Volunteers, held to commemorate the an- 
niversary of Rodney's victory, Apil 12th, 1782, Burns was called upon for a 
Song, instead of which he delivered the following Lines : 

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast, 

Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost ; — 

That we lost, did I say, nay, by heav'n ! that we found, 

For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. 

The next in succession, I'll give you the King, 

"Whoe'er would betray him on high may he swing; 

And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, 

As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 

And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd, 

Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd; 

And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, 

May his son be a hangman, and he is first trial. 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 

Bonny lassie will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, 
Bonny lassie will ye go, to the Birks of Aberfeldy 1 

Kow summer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come let us spend the lightsome days 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c. 

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
The little birdies blythely sing, 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c. 



424 BURNS' WORKS. 

The hoary cliffs are crown' d wi' flowers, 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi* love and thee 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c« 



STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU LEAYE ME? 

Tune—" An Gille dubh ciar dhubh." 
Stay, my charmer can you leave me ? 
Cruel, cruel to deceive me ! 
Well you know how much you grieve me ; 

Cruel charmer, can you go 1 

Cruel charmer, can you go ] 

By my love so ill- requited ; 

By the faith you fondly plighted ; 

By the pangs of lovers slighted ; 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

Thickest night o'erhangs my dwelling ! 

Howling tempests o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 

Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Chrystal streamlets gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind, 

Western breezes, softly blowing, 
Suit not thy distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engaged, 
Wrongs injurious to redress, 

Honour's war we strongly waged, 
But the heavens deny'd success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
Not a hope that dare attend, 

The wide world is all before us — 
But a world without a friend ! 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROYER. 

Tune—" Morag." 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 

The snaws the mountains cover ; 
Like winter on me seizes, 

Since my young highland rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray. 

May heaven be his warden ; 



poems. 425 



Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! 

The trees now naked groaning, 

Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, 
The birdies dowie moaning, 

Shall a' be blythely singing, 
And every flower be springing. 
Sae 111 rejoice the lee-lang day, 

When by his mighty warden 
My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle- Gordon.* 



RAYING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. 

Tune—" M'Grigor of Ruaro's Lament." 
Raving winds around her blowing 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring. 
"Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow. 

"O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery more distressing, 
O how gladly I'd resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee !" 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 

Tune — " Druimion dubh." 
Musing on the roaring ocean, 

Which divides my love and me ; 
Wearying heaven in warm devotion, 

For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 

Yielding late to nature's law, 
Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 

Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 

Ye who never shed a tear, 
Care-troubled, joy- surrounded, 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me : 

Downy sleep the curtain draw ; 
Spirits kind, again attend me, 

Talk of him that's far awa I 

* The young Highland rover is supposed to be the young Chavalier, Prince 
*" rles Edward. 



426 



burns' works. 




BLYTHE WAS SHE, 
Blythe, blythe and merry was she, 

Blythe was she but and ben ; 
Blythe by the banks of Ern, 

And blythe in Glenturit glen. 

By Oughtertyre grows the aik, 

On Yarrow banks, the birkin shaw , 
But Phemie was a bonnier lass 

Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw, 
Blythe, &c. 
Her looks were like a flow'r in May, 

Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 
She tripped by the banks of Ern, 

As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
Blythe, &c. 

Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lee ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. 
Blythe, &c. 
The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 

And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; 
But Phemie was the blythest lass 

That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blythe, &c. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

A rose-bud by my early walk 
Adown a corn-inclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 
All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 

It scents the early morning. 
Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 

Sae early in the morning. 

She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedewed, 
Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jenny fair, 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 
That watched thy early morning 



poems. 427 

WHERE BRAYING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS. 

Tune— "N. Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny." 

Where braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochils rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
As one who by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonished doubly marks its beam, 

With art's most polished blaze. 

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour, 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd, 

When first I felt their pow'r ! 
The tyrant Death, with grim control, 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



TIBBIE I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 
Tune— " Invercauld's Reel."' 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day 
Ye would na been sae shy ; 

For laik o' gear ye lightly me, 
But troth, I care na by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But fient a hair care I. 
O Tibbie I hae, &c. 

I doubt na lass, but you may think, 
Because ye hae the name o' clink, 
That you can please me at a wink, 
Whene'er ye like to try. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &e. 

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Yell cast your head anither airt, 
And answer him fu' dry. 
Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear, 
Be better than the kye. 
Tibbe, I hae, &c, 



428 BURNS' WORKS,. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 
Tibbe, I hae, &c. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I would nae gie her under sark, 
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark ; 
Ye need na look sae high. 
Tibbie, I hae, &c. 



CLARINDA. 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 

The measur'd time is run ! 
The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 

So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part, — but by these precious drops, 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps, 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 

Has blest my glorious day : 
And shall a glimmering planet fix 

My worship to its ray ? 



THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. 

Tune— < ' Seventh of November," 

The day returns, my bosom burns 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. 

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet : 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Than kingly robes, than crown and globes, 

Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine. 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature ought of pleasure give ! 
While joys above, my mind can move, 

For thee, and thee alone, I live ! 
When that grim foe of life below, 

Comes in between to make us part ; 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. 



THE LAZY MIST. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; 



poems. 429 

How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear, 

As autumn resigns the pale year, 

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 

And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 

Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 

How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues ; 

How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd in vain ! 

How little of life's scanty span may remain : 

What aspects old Time, in his progress, has worn ; 

What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn. 

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd ! 

And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd 

This life's not worth having with all it can give. 

For something beyond it poor man sure must live. 



0, WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL. 
Tune—" My love is lost to me." 

were I on Parnassus hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my fill ! 
That I might catch poetic skill, 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my muse's well, 
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel' ; 
On Corsincon I'll glower and spell, 

And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay \ 
For a s the lee-long simmer's day, 

1 coulda sing, I coulda say, 

How much, how dear, I love thee, 
I see thee dancing o'er the green, 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish e'en — 

By heaven and earth I love thee. 

By night, by day, a field, at hame, 

The thoughts of thee my breast inflame ; 

And aye I muse and sing thy name ; 

I only live to love thee, 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
'Till my last, weary sand was run ; 

'Till then — and then I love thee. 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 
Tune—" Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey." 

Op a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean, 



430 



BURNS* WORKS. 






I see her in the dewy flowers, 

1 see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I he ar her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me a' my Jean. 



THE BRAES 0' BALLOCHMYLE. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 

The flowers decayed on Catrine lee, 
The lav'rock sang on hillock green, 

But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 
Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, 
And aye the wild wood echoes rang, 

Farewele the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers, 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair, 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, Fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle ! 



WILLIE BREW'D A PECK 0' MAUT. 

O Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 
And Rob and Allan cam to pree ; 

Three blyther lads that lee lang night, 
Ye wad na find on Christendie. 

" We are nae fou, we're nae that fou, 
But just a drappie in our e'e ; 

The cock may craw, the day may daw, 
And aye we'll taste the barley bree," 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys I trow are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been, 

And mony mair we hope to be ! 

" We are nae fou," &c. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 

She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, 
But by my troth shell wait a wee ! 
We are na fou, &c. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 
A cuckold, coward, loun is he ! 

Wha first beside his chair shall fa*, 
He is the king amang us three ! 
We are na fou, &c. 






POEMS. 

THE BLUE-EYED LASSIfi. 

I GA.ED a waefu' gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet e'en, 

Twa lovely e'en o' bonnie blue. 
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 

Her lips like roses wat wi' dew, 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white — 

It was her e'en sae bonnie blue. 

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyld, 

She charm'd my soul I wist na how ; 
And aye the stound, the deadly wound, 

Cam frae her e'en sae bonnie blue, 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa e'en sae bonny blue. 

THE BANKS OF NITH. 
Tune—" Robie Donna Gorach," 
The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

Where royal cities stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me, 

Where Cummins an ce had high command 
When shall I see that honoured land, 

That winding stream I love so dear ! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand, 

For ever, ever, keep me here. 
How lovely, Kith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ; 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



431 



JOHN ANDEKSON, MY JO. 
John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what you mean, 
To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late at e'en, 
Ye'll blear out a' your e'en John, and why should you do so, 
Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first began 
To try her canny hand, John, her master- work was man ; 
And you amang them a', John, sae trig frae top to toe, 
She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John you were my first conceit, 
And ye na think it strange, John, tho* I ca' ye trim and neat ; 
Tho* some folk say ye're auld, John, I never think ye so, 
But I think ye're aye the same to me, John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, we've seen our bairns' bairns, 
And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm happy in your arms, 






432 burns' works. 

And sae are you in mine, John — I'm sure ye'll ne'er say no, 
Tho' the days are gane, that we hae seen, John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasure does it gie 

To see sae many sprouts, John, spring up 'tween you and me, 

And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go, 

Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were first acquaint, 
Your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your head's turned. bald, John, your locks are like the 

snaw ; 
Tet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to year we've past 
And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our last : 
But let nae that affright us, John, our hearts were ne'er our foe, 
While in innocent delight we lived, John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, we clamb the hill thegither; 
And mony a canty day, John, w've had wi' ane anither. 
N ow we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we'll go : 
And we'll sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. 



TAM GLEN. 



My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie, 
Some counsel unto me come len', 

To anger them a' is a pity, 
But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen ? 

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow, 
In poortith I might mak a fen ; 

What care I in riches to wallow, 
If I maunna marry Tarn Glen. 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, 
" Guide day to you, brute," he comes ben 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 

But when will he dance like Tarn Glen 1 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me, 
But wha can think sae o' Tarn Glen ! 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten : 

But, if it's ordain'd I maun tak him, 
wha will I get like Tarn Glen ] 

Yestreen at the Yalentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mou gied a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written Tarn Glen. 

The last Hallowe'en I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 

His likeness cam up the house staukin, 
And the very grey breeks o' Tarn Glen ! 



poems. 433 

Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry ; 

I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, 
Gin ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tarn Glen. 

MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 
meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, 

And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie, 

My tocher's the jewel has charms ior him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hinney he'll cherish the bee, 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's an arle penny, 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an' ye be crafty, 1 am cunnin, 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. 
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



THEN GUIDEWIFE COUNT THE LAWIN. 

Gane is the day and mirk's the night, 

But we'll ne'er stray for faute o' light 

For ale and brandy's stars and moon, 

And bluid red wine's the risin sun. 
Then guidwife count the lawin, the lawin, the lawin, ^ 
Then guidwife count the lawin, and bring a coggie mair, 

There's wealth an' ease for gentlemen, 

And semple folk maun fecht and fen ; 

But here we're a' in ae accord, 

For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 

Then guidwife count, &c. 

My coggie is a haly pool, 
That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 
And pleasure is a' wanton trout, 
An' ye drink it a* ye'll find him out. 
Then guidwife count, &c. 

IAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI' AN AULD MAN. 
What can a, young lassie, what shall a young lassie, 

What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 
Bad luck on the pennie that tempted 'my minnie 

To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! 
Bad luck on the pennie, &c. 
He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, 

He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang, 
He's doy'lt and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen 

0' dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ♦ 



434 burns' works. 

He hums and he hankers, he fret3 and he cankers * 
I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 

He's peevish, and jealous of a* the young fellows, 
O, dool on the day, I met wi' an auld man ! 

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 

I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 

THE BONNIE WEE THING. 
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 

Lovely wee thing, was thou mine ; 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 

Lest my jewel I should tine. 

"Wistfully I look and languish, 

In that bonnie face of thine ; 
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish. 

Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee, &c. 



O, FOE ANE AND TWENTY TAM. 

Tune— " The Moudiewort." 
An' O, for ane and twenty, Tarn ! 

An' hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang, 

An' I saw ane and twenty, Tarn. 

They snool me sair, and haud me down, 
And gar me look like bl untie, Tarn : 

But three short years will soon wheel roun', 
And then comes ane and twenty, Tarn. 
An' 0, for ane, &c. 

A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 
Was left me by my auntie, Tarn ; 

At kith or kin I need na spier, 
An* I saw ane and twenty, Tarn. 
An' 0, for ane, &c. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
Tho' I mysel hae plenty, Tarn ; 

But hear'st thou laddie, there's my loo£ 
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
An' 0, for ane, &c. 






BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. 

O leeze me on my spinning wheel, 
O leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
Erae tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
And haps me iiel and warm at e'en I 



poems, 435 



I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal — 
O leeze me on my spinning wheel. 
On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
And meet below thy theekit cot ; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white 
Across the pool their arms unite, 
Alike to screen the bridie's nest, 
And little fishes' caller rest ; 
The snn blinks kindly in the bier, 
Where, blythe I turn my spinning wheel. 
On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
The lint whites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the claver hay, 
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley, 
The swallow jinking round my shiel, 
Amuse me at my spinning wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a' the great 1 
Amid their flairing, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joy3, 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel, 
Of Bessy at her spinning wheel. 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 

In simmer when the hay was mawn, 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field, 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel, 

Say3, I'll be wed come o't what will ; 
Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild, 

0' gude advisement comes nae ill. 

Its ye hae wooers mony a ane, 

And, lassie, ye're but young, ye ken ; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, 

A routine butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, 

It's plenty beets the luver's fire. 

For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But bly the's the blink o' Robin's e'e, 

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear ; 



436 burns' works. 

Ae blink o' him I wad na gie 
For Buskie glen and a' his gear. 

O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught, 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But aye fu' han't is fechtin' best, 

A hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spare, 

And wilfu' folk maun hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. 

gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve, 

The gowd and siller canna buy : 
We may be poor, Eobie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and love brings peace and joy, 

What mair hae queens upon a throne ? 



FAIR ELIZA. 

A GAELIC AIR. 

Tukn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rew on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ! 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ! 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 
Turn again, my lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 
In the pride o' sinny noon ; 

Not the little sporting fairy, 
All beneath the simmer moon ; 

Not the poet at the moment 
Fancy lightens on his e'e, 

Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 
That thy presence gies to me. 



THE POS1E. 

Luve will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, 
O luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been : 
But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, 
And a' to pu' a posie to my & ia dear ^ a ^ 



poems. 437 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, 
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a pear : 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, 
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou ; 
The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue : 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey, 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day ; 
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away : 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near, 
And the diamond drops o' dew shall be her een sae clear ; 
The violet for modesty, which weel she fa's to wear : 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' luve, 
And I'll place it in her breast, and swear by a' above, 
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve, 
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. 



THE BANKS 0' DOOK 
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae weary fu' o' care ! 
Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed never to return ! 

Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fause lover stole my rose, 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 



SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 

Willie Wastle dwelt on Tweed, 
The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie ; 

Willie was a wab3ter gude, 

Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony bodie; 

He had a wife was dour and din, 
Tinkler Madgie was her mither ; 



438 burns' works; 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gie a button for her. 

She has an e'e, she has but ane, 
The cat has twa the very colour ; 

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; 

A whiskin beard about her mou, 

Her nose and chin they threaten ither ; 
Sic a wife, &c. 

She's bow hough'd, she's hein shinn'd, 
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter ; 

She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 
To balance fair in ilka quarter : 

She has a hump upon her breast, 
The twin o' that upon her shouther ; 
Sic a wife, &c. 

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, 
And wi' her loof her face a-washin ; 

But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, 

She dights her grunzie wi* a hushion ; 

Her walie nieves like midden creels, 
Her face wad fyle the Logan- water; 

Sic a wife as Willlie had, 
I wad na gie a button for her. 



GLOOMY DECEMBEE. 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Ance mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; 
But the dire feeling, farewell for ever, 

Is anguish unmingl'd, and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 
'Till the last leaf o' the summer i3 flown, 

Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, 
Since my last hope and last comfort is gone ; 

Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 
Still I shall hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 

For sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 
Parting wi' Nancy, Oh, ne'er to meet mair. 

EYAN BANKS. 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, 
The sun from India's shore retires ; 
To Evan banks, with temp'rate ray, 
Home of my youth, it leads the day. 
Oh ! banks to me for ever dear ! 
Oh ! stream whose murmurs still I hear ! 
All my hopes of bliss reside, 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 



poems, 439 

And she, in simple beauty drest, m - 
Whose image lives within my breast ; 
Who trembling heard my piercing sigh, 
And long pursued me with her eye ! 
Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine, 
Oft in the vocal bowers recline 1 
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide, 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde. 

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! 
Ye lavish woods that reign around, 
And o'er the stream your shadows throw, 
Which sweetly winds so far below ; 
What secret charm to mem'ry brings, 
All that on Evan's border springs 1 
Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side : 
Blest stream, she views thee haste to Clyde* 

Can all the wealth of India's coast 
Atone for years in absence lost 1 
Eeturn, ye moments of delight, 
With richer treasures bless my sight ! 
Swift from this desert let me part, 
And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 
Nor more may aught my steps divide 
From that dear stream which flows to Clyde* 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE. 

Wilt thou be my dearie 1 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 
wilt thou let me cheer thee 1 

By the treasure of my soul, 
And that's the love I bear thee : 

I swear and vow that only thou 
Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou I swear and vow, 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me : 

Or, if thou wilt na be my ain, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 

If it winna, canna be, 
Thou, for thine, may choose me : 

Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me, 

Lassie, let me quickly die, 

Trusting that thou lo'es me* 



SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meikle and lang ; 
She'3 broken her vow, she's broken my heart. 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A coof cam in with routh o' gear, 
And I ixae tint my dearest dear, 



440 BURNS' WORKS. 

But woman is but warld's gear, 
Sae let the bonnie lass gang, 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind : 
O woman, lovely woman, fair ! 

An angel form's faun to thy share, 
'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair, 

I mean an angel mind. 






AFTON WATER. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among the green braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by the murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
Thou green- crested lapwing thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, 
Far mark'd with courses of clear winding rills ; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow : 
There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and ine. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

BONNIE BELL. 

The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly Winter grimly flies ; 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the morning, 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning, 

And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 

The flow'ry Spring leads sunny Summer, 

And yellow Autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, 

'Till smiling Spring again appear. 



POEMS. 41 

Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old Time and Nature their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 

THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
Bj mony a flow'r and spreading tree, 
There lives a lad, the lad for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aught or nine, 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; 
And I was fear'd my heart would tine, 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band 
To gie the lad that has the land, 
But to my heart I'll add my hand, 
And give it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ,* 
While bees delight in opening flowers ; 
While corn grows green in simmer showers, 
I'll love my gallant weaver.* 



LOUIS, WHAT EECK I BY THEE. 

Louis, what reck I by thee, 

Or Geordie on his ocean ; 
Dyvor beggar louns to me, 

I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 
Let her crown my love her law, 

And in her breast enthrone me : 
Kings and nations, swith awa ! 

Eeif randies I disown ye ! 



FOE THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. 
My heart is sair, I dare nae tell, 
My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake of somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
. Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I could range the world around, 
For the sake of somebody 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free, 
And send me safe my somebody 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad I not. 
For the sake of somebody ! 

* In some editions Sailor is substituted for Weaver. 
T 5 



442 burns' works; 

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; 
For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

And aye the saut tear blins her e'e ; 
Dramossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear, and brethren three. 

Their winding sheet the bloody clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see ; 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's e'e ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be : 
For mony a heart thou hast made sair, 

That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON. 

Tune.—" Finlayston House." 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierced my darling's heart : 
And with him all the joys are lied 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonour'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my, hopes, 

My age's future shade. 

The mother linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravished young; 
So I for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 

Now fond I bare my breast, 
O do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love at rest ! 



O MAY, THY MORN. 
May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, 

As the mirk night o' December ; 
For sparkling was the rosy wine, 

And private was the chamber : 
And dear was she I darna name, 

But I will aye remember 
And dear, &c. 
And here's to them, that like oursel, 

Can push about the jorum; 
And here's to them that wish us weel, 

May a' that's gude watch o'er them ; 
And here's to them, we darna tell, 

The dearest o' the quorum, 
And here's to, &c. 



O WHAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN. 

O what ye wha's in yon town, 
Ye see the e'ening sun upon, 
The fairest dame's in yon town, 
That e'ening sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw, 
She wanders by yon spreading tree ; 

How blest ye flow'rs that mind herblaw, 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e. 

How blest ye birds that round her sing, 
And welcome in the blooming year, 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to my Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blythe on yon town, 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; 

But my delight in yon town, 
And dearest bliss is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a' the charms, 
0' paradise could yield me joy ; 

But gie me Lucy in my arms, 

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky* 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air ; 

And she a lovely little flower, 

That I wad tent and shelter there. 

sweet is she in yon town, 

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon : 
A fairer than's in yon town, 
His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate has sworn my foe, 
And suffering I am doom'd to bear; 

1 careless quit aught else below, 

But spare me, spare me, Lucy dear. 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, 

And she — as fairest is her form ! 
She has the truest kindest heart. 



A RED, RED ROSE. 

O my love's like a red, red rose, 
That's newly sprung in June, 

O my love's like the melody, 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in love am I ; 
And I will love thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun; 



444 burns' works. 

I will love thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only love, 
And fare thee weel awhile ! 

And I will come again, my love, 
Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



A YISIOET. 

As I stood by yon roofless tower, 

Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, 
Where th' h owlet mourns in her ivy bower, 

And tells the midnight moon her care. 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars they shot alang the sky ; 

The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant echoing glens reply. 

The stream adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, 

Hasting to join the sweeping Mth, 
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. 

The cauld blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; 

Athort the lift they start and shift, 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, 
And, by the moon-beam, shook to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been of stane, 
His darin look had daunted me ; 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, 
The sacred posie — Liberty ! 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 

Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear ; 

BHt oh, it was a tale of woe, 
As ever met a Briton's ear ! 

He sang wi' joy his former day, 

He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 

But what he said it was nae play, 
I winna ventur't in my rhymes. 



COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS 

TO 

ME. WILLIAM TYTLER, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE. 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart, a name once respected ; 
A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart= 
But now 'tis despised and neglected ; 



poems. 445 

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers, that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, 

The Queen and the rest of the gentry, 
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ; 

Their title's avow'd by the country. 

But why of that epocha make such a fuss, 

But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground, 

Who knows how the fashions may alter, 
The doctrine, to day that is loyalty sound, 

To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 
A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard, 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 
Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, 

And ushers the long dreary night ; 
But you, like the star that awthwart gilds the sky, 
Your course to the latest is bright. 
My muse jilted me here, and turned a corner on me, and I have 
not got again into her good graces. Do me the justice to believe 
me sincere in my grateful remembrance of the many civilities you 
have honoured me with since I came to Edinburgh, and in assur- 
ing you that I have the honour to be, 

Eevered Sir, 
Your obliged and very humble Servant, 

BUKNS. 

Edinburgh, 1787. 

CALEDONIA. 

Tune.—" Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

There was once a day, but old Time then was young, 

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 

(Who knows" not that brave Caledonia's divine?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 

To hunt, or to pasture, or to do what she would : 
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, ^ 

And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good. 
A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew : 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, — 

Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter shall rue, 



446 burns' works* 

With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, 
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn, 

But chiefly the woods were herfav'rite resort, 
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn* 

Long quiet she reigned ; 'till thitherward steers 

A flight of young eagles from Adria's strand : 
Repeated, successive, for many long years, 

They darken'd the air, and they plundered the land : 
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, 

They'd conquer' d and ruin'd a world beside : 
She took to her hills and her arrows let fly, 

The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, 

The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore ; 
The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth 

To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore : 
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd, 

No arts could appease them, nor arms could repel ; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, 

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. 

The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose, 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife ; 
Provoked beyond bearing, at last she arose, 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life : 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver flood; 
But taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd and free, 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : 
Rectangle triangle, the figure we'll choose, 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base ; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; 

Then ergo she'll match them, and match them always. 

THE FOLLOWING POEM 

WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, 
AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. 

Kind sir, I've read your paper through, 
And faith, to me, 'twas really new ! 
How guessed ye, sir, what maist I wanted ? 
This mony a day I've grain'd and grunted, 
To ken what French mischief was brewin' ; 
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin' ; 
That vile doup skelper, Emperor Joseph, 
If Yenus yet had got his nose off; 
Or how the collieshangic works 
Atween the Russian and the Turks ; 
Or if the Swede before he halt, 
Would play anither Charles the Twalt ! 



If Denmark, ony body spak o't ; 

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; 

How cut- throat Prussian blades were hingin'; 

How libbet Italy was singin' ; 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 

Were sayin or takin ought amiss : 

Or how our merry lads at hame, 

In Britain's court kept up the game : 

How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him ! 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin', 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were raxed, 

Or if bare a — yet were taxed ; 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls ; 

If that daft Buckie, Geordie Wales, 

Was threshin still at hizzies' tails, 

Or if he was growin oughtlins douser, 

And no a perfect kintra cooser. — 

A' this and mair I never heard of; 

And, but for you, I might despair'd of. 

So gratefu', back your news I send you. 

And pray, a* guid things may attend you ! 

Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790. 



POEM. 

ON PASTORAL POETRY. 

Hail Poesie ! thou nymph reserved ! 

In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved 

Frae common sense, or sunk enerved 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starved, 

'Mid a' thy favours ! 
Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 
While loud the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage 1 
In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 
But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches ; 
Squire Pope but busks his skinlin patches 

0' heathen tatters : 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 



[48 



BURNS' WORKS. 

In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-famed Grecian share 

A rival place ? 

Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan ! 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel so clever ; 
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan, 

But thou's for ever. 

Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

!N"ae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws or braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel ; 
]^ae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 
ISslq snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

0' witcliin' love, 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move. 



THE BATTLE OF SHER1FF-MTTIR. 

BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL OF MAR. 

" cam ye here the fight to shun, 

Or herd the sheep wi' me, man? 
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, 

And did the battle see, man ?- 
I saw the battle sair and teugh, 
And reekin-red ran monie a sheugh, 
My heart for fear gae sough for sough, 
To hear the thud?, and see the cluds 
0' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 

Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red-coat lads wi' black cockades, 

To meet them were na slaw, man ; 
They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgush'd, 

And mony a bouk did fa', man : 
The great Argyle led on his file?, 
I wat they glanced twenty miles ! 
They hack'd and hash'd, while broadswords chish'd, 
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, 

Till fey men died awa, man. 



poems. 449 

But had you seen the philibegs, 

And skyrin tartan trews, man, 
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, 

A nd covenant true blues, man ; 
In lines extended lang and large, 
When bayonets opposed the targe, 
And thousands hastened to the charge, 
Wi' highland wrath they frae the sheath, 
Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath, 

They fled like frighted doos, man. 

" how deil Tarn can that be true 1 

The chase gaed frae the north, man : 
I saw myself, they did pursue 

The horseman back to Forth, man; 
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, 
They took the brig wi' a' their might, 
And straught to Stirling winged their flight ; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut 
And money a hunted poor red coat 

For fear amaist did swarf, man." 

My sister Kate came up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man : 
She swoor she saw some rebels run, 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ; 
Their left- hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day their neebor's blocd to spill ; 
For fear by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, 
And so it goes, you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 

Amang the Highland clans, man ; 
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain, 

Or fallen in whiggish hands, man 
Now wad ye sing this double fight, 
Some fell for wrang, and some for right ; 
But mony bade the world gude-night ; 
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 
By red claymores, and muskets, knell, 
Wi' dying yell, the tories fell, 

And whigs to hell did flee, man. 






SKETCH. 

NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

TO MRS. DTTNLOP. 

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonths' length again : 
I see the old bald-pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine, 
To wheel the equal dull routine. 



450 burns' works. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 

In vain assail him with their prayer. 

Deaf as my friend he sees them press, 

Nor makes the hour one moment less. 

Will you (the Major's with the hounds, 

The happy tenants share his rounds ; 

Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day, 

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray ;) 

From housewife cares a minute borrow — 

— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow— 

And join with me a moralizing, 

This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver ; 

" Another year is gone for ever." 

And what is this day's strong suggestion ! 

u The passing moment's all we rest on !" 

Rest on — for what ! What do we here ] 

Or why regard the passing year ] 

Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 

Add to our date one minute more 1 

A few days may — a few years must — 

Repose us in the silent dust. 

Then, is it wise to damp our bliss ? 

Yes, all such reasonings are amiss ! 

The voice of nature loudly cries, 

And many a message from the skies, 

That something in U3 never dies : 

That on this frail, uncertain state, 

Hang matters of eternal weight ; 

That future-life in worlds unknown 

Must take its hue from this alone : 

Whether as heavenly glory bright, 

Or dark as misery's woeful night — 

Since then, my honour'd first of friends. 

On this poor being all depends : 

Let us th' important now employ, 

And live as those who never die. 

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, 

Witness that filial circle round, 

(A sight life's sorrows to repulse, 

A sight pale envy to convulse), 

Others now claim your chief regard 

Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE, 

ON THE LATE MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, 

AUTHOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATURAL HISTORY, AND MEMBER OF THE ANIl 

QUARIAN AND ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH. 

To Crochallan came 
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same ; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night, 
His uncombed grizzly locks wild- staring, thatch'd, 
A head for thought profound and clear, unmatched ; 









POEMS. 451 

Yet,tho 5 his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent and good. 

POETICAL INSCRIPTION, 

FOR 

AN ALTAE TO INDEPENDENCE, 

AT KEJHIOUCHTEY, THE SEAT OF MR. HEBON.— WBITTEN IN SUMMER 1795. 

Thou of an independent mind, 

With soul resolved, with soul resigned ; 

Prepared power's proudest fro *vn to brave, 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere, 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



SONNET, 

ON 

THE DEATH OF ME. EIDDEL. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more, 
Nor pour your descant grating on my ear : 
Thou young-eyed Spring thy charms I cannot bear ; 

More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. 

How can ye please, ye flowers, with all your dies 1 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : 
How can I to the tuneful strain attend % 

That strain pours round th' untimely tomb where Eiddel lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe, 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier; 
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, 

Is in his ' narrow house* for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 

MONODY 

ON 

A LADY FAMED FOE HEE CAPEICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd, 

How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd : 

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so listened. 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, 
From friendship and dearest affection removed ; 

How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, 
Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unloved. 

Loves, graces, and virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear ; 
But come, all ye offspring of folly so true, 

And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. 



452 BURNS' WORKS. 

We'll search through the garden for each silly flower, 
We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed ; 

But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 

For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay ; 

Here Yanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, 

Which spurning contempt shall redeem from his ire. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, 
What once was a butterfly gay in life's beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



ANSWER TO A MANDATE 

SENT BY THE SURVEYOR OF THE WINDOWS, CARRIAGES, &C. TO EACH 
FARMER, ORDERING HIM TO SEND A LIST OF HIS HORSES, SERVANTS, 
WHEEL- CARRIAGES, &C. AND WHETHER HE WAS A MARRIED MAN OR A 
BACHELOR, AND WHAT CHILDREN THEY HAD. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list, 
My horses, servants, carts, and graith, 
To which I'm free to tak my aith. 
Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew before a pettle. 

My hand-afore, a guid auld has been 
And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen 
My hand-akin, a guid brown tilly, 
Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie ; 
And your auld borough mony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime : 
My fur-a-hin a guid, grey beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was traced : 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A d-mn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastie. 
For-by a cowte, of cowtes the wale, 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An' he be spared to be a beast, 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. 

Wheel carriages I hae but few, 
Three carts, and twa are feckly new, 
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spindle, 
And my auld mither brunt the trundle. 
For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin and for noise ; 
A gadsman ane, a thresher t'other, 
Wee Davoc hauds the nowt in fother. 



poems. 453 

1 rule them, as I ought, discreetly, 
And often labour them completely, 
And aye on Sundays duly nightly, 
I on the questions tairge them tightly, 
'Till, faith ; wee Davoc's grown so gleg, 
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg) 
He'll screed you aff effectual calling, 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 
I've nane in female servant station, 
Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation ! 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 
For weans I'm niair than weel contented, 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted : 
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddie in her face, 
Enough of ought ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady, 
I've said enough for her already, 
And if ye tax her or her mither, 
By the L — d ye'se yet them a' thegither ! 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 

Nae kind of license out I'm taking, 

Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 

Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 

I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit ! 

And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. 

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, 
The day and date as under notet ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 

Subscripsi hide. 

ROBERT BURNS. 

SONG. 
Nae dames, tho' e'er sae fair ; 
Shall ever be my muse's care ; 
Their titles a' are empty show; 
Gie me my highland lassie, 0. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plain sae rushy, O 
I set me down, wi' right good will, 
To sing my highland lassie, 0. 

were yon hills and valleys mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 

The world then the love should know 

I bear my highland lassie, 0. 
Within the glen, &c. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while the crimson currents flow, 
I'll love my highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c, 



454 BURNS* WORKS, 

Altho' thro' foreign climes 1 range, 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow 
My faithful highland lassie, 0. 
Within the glen, &c. 

For her I'll dare the billow's roar, 
For her I'll trace a distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw, 
Around my highland lassie, 
Within the glen, &c. 

She has my heart, she ha3 my hand, 
By sacred truth and honour's band ! 
'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine my highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c. 

Farewell the glen sae bushy, O 
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O 
To other lands I now must go 
To sing my highland lassie, 0. 



IMPROMPTU, 

ON MRS. *S BIRTH DAY. 

4th November, 1 798. 
Old Winter with his frosty beard, 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd ; 
" What have I done of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe % 
My cheerless sons no pleasure know; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow : 
My dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny English hanging, drowning. 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil ; 

To counterbalance all this evil ; 

Give me, and I've no more to say, 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That brilliant gift will so enrich me, 

Spring, Summer, Autumn cannot match me :" 

" 'Tis done !" says Jove ; so ends my story, 

And Winter once rejoiced in glory. 



ADDRESS TO A LADY. 
Oh wert thou in the cauld blast, 

On yondea lea, on yonder lea, 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 
Sae black and frare, sae black and bare. 



poems, 455 

The desert were a paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; 
The brightest jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 

TO A YOUNG LADY, 

MISS JESST L , OF DUMFRIES; 

WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER. 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the poet's prayer ; 
That fate may in her fairest page, 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name : 
With native worth, and spotless fame, 
And wakeful caution, still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare; 
And blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the lard. 



SONNET, 

WRITTEN ON THE 25TH JANUARY 1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OF THH 
AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK., 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, 

Sing on sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, 

See aged Winter 'mid his surly reign, 
At thy blythe carol clears his furrowed brow. 

So in lone poverty's dominion drear, 
Sits meek content with light unanxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies ! 

Eiches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
What wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, 

The mite high heaven bestowed, that mite with thee I'll share. 



EXTEMPORE, 

TO MR. S— E, 

ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAYING BEEN PROMISED THS 
FIRST OF COMPANY, AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY, 17TH DEC, 17 V£. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 

And cookery the first in the nation : 
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 

Is proof to all other temptation, 






456 burn's works. 

To Mr. S— E, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OP PORTER. 

O had the malt thy strength of mind, 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit ; 

'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for S— e were fit. 

Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 



THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 

Tune — " Push about the Jorum." 

April, 1795. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ?- 

Then let the loons beware, sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, sir. 
The Mth shall run to Corsincon, 

And Criffel sink in Sol way, 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 

« Fal de rail, &c. 

let us not, like snarling tykes, 

In wrangling be divided ; 
'Till slap come in an unco loon 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true* 

Amang oursels united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs he righted. 
" Fal de rail, &c. 

The kettle o' the kirk and state, 

Perhaps a clout may fail in't ; 
But deil a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
By heaven the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 

" Fal de rail, &c. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch his true-born brother, 
Who would set the mob aboon the throne, 

May they be damned together ! 
Who will not sing " God save the king/' 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But, while we sing " God save the king," 

We'll ne'er forget the people. 



POEM, 

ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OP EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 179 

Friend of the poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or Bteal; 



poems. 457 

Alake, alake, the meikle deil, 

Wi* a* his witches 
Are at it, skelphin' ! jig and reel, 

In my poor pouches. 

I, modestly, fa* fain wad hint it, 
That one pound one, 1 sairly want it ; 
If wi' the hizzie down ye send it, 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi* double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hail design. 

POSTSCRIPT. 
Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But, by guid luck, I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 
But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
And by that life I'm promised mair o't, 
My hale and weel 111 tak a' care o't 

A tentier way : 
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye. 



SE8T TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED. 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

(Not moony madness more astray) 
Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 

Wine was th* insensate frenzied part, 
Ah why should I such scenes outlive ! 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



POEM ON LIFE, 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER, DUMFRIES, 1796. 

Mt honoured colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the poet's weel ; 
Ah ! how sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty world were it, 
Would pain and care, and sickness spare it : 
u 



458 



burns' Works. 



And fortune, favour, worth, and merit, 

As they deserve ; 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; 

Syne wha would starve?) 
Dame life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still, 
Aye wavering like the willow wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 
Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches like baudrons by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip ! his tail yell ne'er cast saut on, 

He's aff like fire. 
Ah Nick ! ah Nick, it is na fair, 
First showing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave unseen thy spider's snare 

hell's damn'd waft. 
Poor man, the file, aft bizzes by, 

And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure. 
Soon heels o'er gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murdering wrestle^ 
As dangling in the wind he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 
But lest you think I am uncivil, 
To plague you with this draunting drivel, 
Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

1 squat my pen ; 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil I 

Amen ! amen ! 




ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE. 
Mt curse upon your venom'd stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us 
Wi* pitying moan ; 



i?OEtos\ 459 

But thee— thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our groan ! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ; 
I throw the wee stools o'er the meikle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle, 

To see me loup ; 
While raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

0' a* the num'rous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stools, 

Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 

The tricks o' knaves or fash o* fools, 

Thou bear'st the gree, 

» 

Where'er that place be, priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfu' raw, 
Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell, 

Amang them a' ! 

O thou grim mischief making chiel, 
That gars the notes o* discord squeel, 
'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ; — 
Gie a' the faes o' Sctoland's weel 

A towmond's Tooth-Ache. 



SONG. 
Tone.— Morag. 
O wha is she that lo'es me, 

And has my heart a-keeping? 
O sweet is she that lo'es me, 
As dews o' summer weeping, 
In tears the rose-buds steeping. 

CHORUS. 

O that's the lassie o' my heart, 
My lassie ever dearer ; 

that's the queen o' womankind, 
And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie, 
In grace and beauty charming, 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 
Ere while thy breast sae warming 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 
that's, &c. 

If thou hadst heard her talking, 
And thy attentions plighted, 

That ilka body talking, 
But her by thee is slighted : 
And thou art all delighted. 
that's &c. 



460 BURNS' WORKS. 

If thou hast met this fair one ; 
When frae her thou hast parted, 

If every other fair one, 
But her thou hast deserted, 
And thou art broken hearted — 
that's &c. 



SONG. 

Jockie's ta'en the parting kiss, 
O'er the mountain he is gane ; 

And with him is a' my bliss, 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 
Plashy sleets and beating rain, 

Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 
Drifting o'er the frozen plain. 

When the shades of evening creep 
O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, 

Sound and safely may he sleep, 
Sweetly blythe his waukening be ! 

He will think on her he loves, 
Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 

For where'er he distant roves, 
Jockey's heart is still at hame. 



SONG. 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 
The frost of Hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind : 
I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art, 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway, 
Who but knows they all decay i 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The generous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look, that rage disarms 
These are all immortal charms. 



WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER, 

INCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPTAIN GROSE, TO BE LEFT WITH MR. CARDON- 
NEL, ANTIQUARIAN. 
Titnb.— " Sir John Malcolm." 
Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? 

Igo, and ago, 
If he's amang his friends or foes t 
Iram, coram, dago. 



POEMS. 461 



Is he South, or is he Norths? 

Igo, and ago, 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies % 

Igo, and ago, 
And eaten like a wether-haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago, 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane 

Igo, and ago 
Or haudin' Sarah by the wame 1 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ; 

Igo, and ago, 
As for the deil he daur na steer him, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th' inclosed letter, 

Igo, and ago, 
Which will oblige your humble debtor 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may you have auld stanes in store, 

Igo, and ago, 
The very stanes that Adam bore, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo, and ago, 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 



ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. OF F1NTRY. 

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. 

I call no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dearer as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface ; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres, 
Only to number out a villain's year ! 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest, 
As e'er God with his image blest, 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 



462 burns' woeks. 

Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

O Thou, who kindly dost provide 

For ev*ry creature's want ! 
We bless thee, God of nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent ; 
And if it please the heavenly guide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But whether granted, or denied, 
Lord bless us with content ! 
Amen! 



TO MI DEAR AND MUCH RESPECTED PRIEKD, 

Mrs. DUNLOP, OF DTJNLOP. 

ON SENSIBITITT. 

Sensibility how charming. 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; 

But distress, with horrors arming, 
Thou hast also known too well ; 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 
Blooming in the sunny ray ; 

Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 
See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, 

Telling o'er his little joys : 
Hapless bird ! a prey the surest, 

To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 

Finer feelings can bestow : 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 

Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



A YERSE, 



COMPOSED AND BEFEATED BY BUBNS, TO THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE, ON TAKING 
LEAVE AX A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS WHEBE HE HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY 
ENTERTAINED. 



When death's dark stream I ferry o'er ; 

A time that surely shall come ; 
In heaven itself, I ask no more, 

Than just a Highland welcome 






CORRESPONDENCE 

WITH 

ME. GEOKGE THOMSON, 



CORRESPONDENCE, &c, 



No. L 

MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

Sir, Edinburgh, Sept. 1792. 

For some years past, I have, with a friend or two, employed many 
leisure hours in selecting and collating the most favourite of our 
national melodies for publication. We have engaged Pleyel the 
most agreeable composor living, to put accompaniments to these, 
and also to compose an instrumental prelude and conclusion to 
each air, the better to fit' them for concerts, both public and pri- 
vate. To render this work perfect, we are desirous to have the 
poetry improved, wherever it seems unworthy of the music; and 
that it is so in many instances, is allowed by every one that is con- 
versant with our musical collections. The editors of these seem in 
general to have depended on the musio proving an excuse for the 
verses ; and hence some charming melodies are united to mere 
nonsense and doggrel, while others are accommodated with rhymes 
so loose and indelicate, as cannot be sung in decent company. To 
remove this reproach, would be an easy task to the author of The 
Cotter's Saturday Night ; and, for the honour of Caledonia, I would 
fain hope he may be induced to take up the pen. If so, we shall 
be enabled to present the public with a collection infinitely more 
interesting than any that has yet appeared, and acceptable to all 
persons of taste, whether they wish for correct melodies, delicate 
accompaniments, or characteristic verses. — We will esteem your 
poetical assistance a particular favour, besides paying any reasona- 
ble price you shall please to demand for it. Profit is quite a se- 
condary consideration with u% and we are resolved to spare nei- 
ther pains nor expense on the publication. Tell me frankly then 
whether you will devote your leisure to writing twenty or twenty- 
five songs, suited to the particular melodies, which I am prepared 
to send you. A few songs exceptionable only in some of their 
verses, I will likewise submit to your consideration; leaving it 
to you, either to mend these or make new songs in their stead. It 
is superfluous to assure you that, I have no intention to displace 
any of the sterling old songs ; those only will be removed that ap- 
pear quite silly, or absolutely indecent. Even these shall all be 
examined by Mr. Burns, and if he is of opinion that any of them 
are deserving of the music in such cases, no divorce shall take 
place. 

Relying on the letter accompanying this, to be forgiven for the 
liberty I have taken in addressing you, 1 am, with great esteem, 
sir, your most obedient humble servant, 

G, THOMSON. 
u 5 



466 BURNS' WORKS, 

No. II. 
MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

Sir, Dumfries, 16 September, 1792. 

I have just this moment got your letter. As the request you make 
to me will positively add to my enjoyments in complying with it, 
I shall enter into your undertaking with all the small portion of 
abilities I have, strained to their utmost exertion by the impulse of 
enthusiasm. Only, don't hurry me : " Deil tak the hindmost" is 
by no means the cri de guerre of my muse. Will you, as I am in- 
ferior to none of you in enthusiastic attachment to the poetry and 
music of old Caledonia, and since you request it, have cheerfully 
promised my mite of assistance — will you let me have a list of your 
airs, with the first line of the printed verses you intend for them, 
that 1 may have an opportunity of suggesting any alteration that 
may occur to me. You know 'tis in the way of my trade; still 
leaving you, gentlemen, the undoubted right of publishers, to ap- 
prove, or reject, at your pleasure, for your own publication. Apro- 
pos, if you are for English verses, there is, on my part, an end of the 
matter. Whether in the simplicity of the ballad, or the pathos of 
the song, I can only hope to please myself in being allowed at 
least a sprinkling of our native tongue. English verses, particularly 
the works of Scotsmen, that have merit, are certainly very eligible. 
Tweedside; Ah I the poor Shepherd's mournful fate ; Ah! Chloris, 
could I now but sit, &c. you cannot mend ; but such insipid stuff as 
To Fanny fair, could I impajt, &c. usually set to The Mill Mill 0, 
is a disgrace to the collection in which it has already appeared, and 
would doubly disgrace a collection that will have the superior merit 
of yours. But more of this in the farther prosecution of the business, 
if I am called on for my strictures and amendments — I say, amend- 
ments ; for I will not alter except where I myself, at least, think 
that I amend. 

As to any remuneration, you may think my songs either above or 
below price ; for they shall absolutely be the one or the other. In 
the honest enthusiasm with which I embark in your undertaking, 
to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, &c. would be downright jprostitw 
tion of soul / A proof of each of the songs that I compose or amend, 
I shall receive as a favour. In the rustic phrase of the season, 
il Guid speed the wark !" 

I am, Sir, your very humble servant, 

R. BURNS. 

P. S. I have some particular reasons for wishing my interference 
to be known as little as possible. 

No. III. 
MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 
Dear Sir, Edinburgh, 13th October, 1792. 

I received, with much satisfaction, your pleasant and obliging let- 
ter, and I return my warmest acknowledgments for the enthusiasm 
with which you have entered into our undertaking. We have now 
no doubt of being able to produce a collection highly deserving of 
public attention, in all respects. 



CORRESPONDENCE^ 467 

I agree with you in thinking English verses, that have merit, 
very eligible, wherever new verses are necessary; because the Eng- 
lish becomes every year, more and more, the language of Scotland ; 
but if you mean that no English verses, except those by Scottish 
authors, ought to be admitted, I am half inclined to differ from 
you. I should consider it unpardonable to sacrifice one good song 
in the Scottish dialect, to make room for English verses ; but if we 
can select a few excellent ones suited to the unprovided or ill-pro- 
vided airs, would it not be the very bigotry of literary patriotism 
to reject such, merely because the authors were born south of the 
Tweed ? Our sweet air My Nannie 0, which in the collections 
is joined to the poorest stuff that Allan Ramsay ever wrote, begin- 
ning, While some for pleasure pawn their health, answers so finely 
to Dr. Percy's beautiful song, Nancy wilt thou go with me, that, 
one would think he wrote it on purpose for the air. However, it 
is not at all our wish to confine you to English verses : you shall 
freely be allowed a sprinkling of your native tongue, as you ele- 
gantly express it, and, moreover, we will patiently wait your own 
time. One thing only I beg, which is, that however, gay and 
sportive the muse may be, she may always be decent. Let her not 
write what beauty would blush to speak, nor wound that charming 
delicacy, which forms the most precious dowry of our daughters. 
I do not conceive the song to be the most proper vehicle for witty 
and brilliant conceits : simplicity, 1 believe, should be its promi- 
nent feature ; but in some of our songs, the writers have con- 
founded simplicity with coarseness and vulgarity ; although between 
the one and the other, as Dr. Beattie well observes, there is as great 
a difference as between a plain suit of clothes and a bundle of rags. 
The humorous ballad, or pathetic complaint, is best suited to our 
artless melodies ; and more interesting indeed in all songs than the 
most pointed wit, dazzling descriptions, and flowery fancies. 

With these trite observations, I send you eleven of the songs, for 
which it is my wish to substitute others of your writing. I shall 
soon transmit the rest, and at the same time, a prospectus of the 
whole collection ; and you may believe we will receive any hints 
that you are so kind as to give for improving the work, with the 
greatest pleasure and thankfulness. 

I remain, dear Sir, 



No. IV. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

Mr Dear Sir, 
Let me tell you, that you are too fastidious in your ideas of songs 
and ballads. I own that your criticisms are just ; the songs you 
specify in your list have all but one the faults you remark in them ; 
but who shall mend the matter 1 ? Who shall rise up and say— Go 
to, 1 will make a better ] For instance, on reading over The Lea 
Rig, I immediately set about trying my hand on it, and, after all 
could make nothing more of it than the following, which, Heaven 
knows, is poor enough. 

When o'er the hill the eastern star/ 
Tells bugntin-time is near, my jo; 



468 bubns* works! 

And owsen frae the rurrow'd field, 

Return sae dowf and weary O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In mirkest glen at midnight hour, 

I'd rove and ne'er be eerie O, 
If through that glen I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie O, 
Although the night were ne'er so wild, 

And I were ne'er sae wearie O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. Percy's ballad to the 
air Nannie 0, is just. It is, besides, perhaps the most beautiful 
ballad in the English language. But let me remark to you, that 
in the sentiment and style of our Scottish airs, there is a pastoral 
simplicity, a something that one may call the Doric style and dia- 
lect of vocal music, to which a dash of our native tongue and man- 
ners is particularly, nay, peculiarly, apposite. For this reason, 
and, upon my honour, for this reason alone, I am of opinion (but 
as I told you before, my opinion is yours, freely yours, to approve 
or reject, as you please) that my ballad of Nannie might perhaps 
do for one set of verses to the tune. Now don't let it enter into 
your head, that you are under any necessity of taking my verses. I 
have long ago made up my mind as to my own reputation in the 
business of authorship ; and have nothing to be pleased or offended 
at, in your adoption or rejection of my verses. Though you should 
reject one half of what 1 give you, I shall be pleased with your 
adopting the other half, and shall continue to serve you with the 
same assiduity. 

In the printed copy of my Nannie 0, the name of the river is 
horridly prosaic. I will alter it, 

" Behind yon hills where Lugar flows." 

Girvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of the stanza 
best, but Lugar is the most agreeable modulation of syllables. 

I will soon give you a great many more remarks on this business ; 
but I have just now an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, 
free of postage, an expense that it is ill able to pay ; so, with my 
best compliments to honest Allan, Good be wi* ye, &c. 

Friday Night. 

7TC yp 7F *T^ 

Saturday Morning, 

As I find I have still an hour to spare this morning before my 
conveyance goes away, 1 will give you Nannie at length, 

Your remarks on Ewe hughts, Marion, are just; still it has ob- 
tained a place among our more classical Scottish songs ; and what 
with many beauties in its composition, and more prejudices in its 
favour, you will not find it easy to supplant it. 

In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the 
West Indies I took the following farewell of a dear girl. It is^ quite 
trilling, and has nothing of the merit of Ewe hughts ; but it will 
fill up the page. You must know, that all my earliest love- 
eongs were the breathings of ardent passion, and though it migh+. 



CORRESPONDENCE, 



46a 



have been easy in after times to have given them a polish, yet that 
polish, to me, whose they were, and who perhaps alone cared for 
them, wonld have defaced the legend of my heart, which was so 
faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as 
they say of wines, their race. 

And sae may the Heavens forget, me, 
When I forget my vow. 



Will ye go to the Indies my Mary, 
And leave old Scotia's shore? 

Wilirycm go to Indies, my Mary, 
Across th' Atlantic's roar X 



O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily white hand : 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 



We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join, 
And curst be the cause that shall part usj 
The hour and the moment o' time.* 



sweet grows the lime and the orang 
And the apple on the pine ; 

But a' the charms o' the Indies, 
Can never equal thine. 

1 hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary 
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true, 

Galla Water and Auld Bob Morris, I think, will most probably 
by the next subject of my musings. However, even on my verses, 
speak out your criticisms with equal frankness. My wish is, not 
to stand aloof, the uncomplying bigot of opiniatrete, but cordially 
to join issue with you in the furtherance of the work. 



No. Y. 

MR. BURNS to MR, THOMSON. 

November 8th, 1792. 

If you mean, my dear sir, that all the songs in your collection shall 
be poetry of the first merit, I am afraid you willjimd more difficulty 
in the undertaking than you are aware of. There is a peculiar 
rhythmus in many of our airs and a necessity of adapting syllables 
to the emphasis, or what I should call the feature notes, of the tune, 
that cramp the poet, and lay him under almost insuperable difficul- 
ties. For instance, in the air, My wifes a wanton wee thing, if a 
few lines, smooth and pretty, can be adapted to it, it is all you 
can expect. The following were made extempore to it ; and 
though on further study, 1 might give you something more profound, 
yet it might not suit the light-horse gallop of the air so well as this 
random clink, 

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 



She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo'ed a dearer, 

And neist my heart I'll wear, her, 

For fear my jewel tine. 



She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee tlln?, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine, 

The warld's wrack we share o't, 
The wrastle and the care o't 
M V her I'll blythely bear it, 
And tnink my lot divine. 



I have been looking over the Collier's bonny Dochter, and if the 
following raphsody, which I composed the other day, on a charming 
Ayrshire girl, Miss , as she passed through this place to Eng- 
land, will suit your taste better than the Collier Lassie, fall on and 
welcome. 

♦This song Mr, Thomson has not adopted in his collection. It deserves' 
however, to be preserved. 



470 



BURNS' works. 



O saw ye bonnie Lesley 

As she gaed o'er the border ? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 
To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 
And love but her for ever ; 

For Nature made her what she is, 
And never made anither . 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee ; 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore, thee, 



The Deil he could na Scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee ; 

He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

The powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 
Return to Caledonie ! 

T hat we may brag we hae a lass 
There's nane again sae bonnie. 

"%* *l* *r '^ 

I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more pathetic airs, until 
more leisure, as they will take, and deserve, a greater effort. How- 
ever, they are all put into your hands, as clay into the hands of the 
potter, to make one vessel to honour, and another to dishonour. 
Farewell, &c. 



No. VI. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 
HIGHLAND MARY. 

Tune.—" Katherine Ogie." 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ; 
As underneath her fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore our selves asunder ; 
But Oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly ; 
And closed for aye, the sparkling glance, 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 



CORRESPONDENCE. 471 

A&d mouldering now in silent dust 
The heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 

But still within my bosom's core, 
Shall live my Highland Mary. 

* * * # 

Mr Dear Sir, Uth November, 1792. 

I agree with you, that the song, Katherine Ogie, is very poor stuff, 
and unworthy — altogether unworthy— of so beautiful an air. I 
tried to mend it, but the awkward word Ogie, recurring so often in 
the rhyme, spoils every attempt at introducing sentiment into the 
piece. The foregoing song pleases myself; I think it is in my hap- 
piest manner ; you will see at first glance that it suits the air. The 
subject of the song is one of the most interesting passages of my 
youthful days ; and I own that I should be much flattered to see 
the verses set to an air, which should insure celebrity. Perhaps, 
after all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart, that throws 
a borrowed lustre over the merits of the composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of Auld Rob Morris. I have 
adopted the two first verses, and am going on with the song on a 
new plan, which promises pretty well. I take up one or another, 
just as the bee of the moment buzzes in my bonnet lug ; and do 
you, sans ceremonie, make what use you please of the productions. 
Adieu, &c. 

No. VII. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Dear Sie, Edinburgh, Nov. 7. 1792. 

I was just going to write to you, that on meeting with your 
Nannie, I had fallen violently in love with her. I thank you, 
therefore, for sending the charming rustic to me in the dress you 
wish her to appear before the public. She does you great credit, 
and will soon be admitted into the best company. 

I regret that your song for the Lea-Rig is so short ; the air is 
easy, sung soon, and very pleasing ; so that if the singer stops at 
the end of two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost, ere it is well possessed. 

Although a dash of our native tongue and manners is doubtless 
peculiarly congenial and appropriate to our melodies, yet I shall be 
able to present a considerable number of the very Flowers of Eng- 
lish Song, well adapted to those melodies, which, in England at 
least, will be the means of recommending them to still greater 
attention than they have procured there. But you must observe, 
my plan is, that every air shall, in the first place, have verses wholly 
by Scottish poets ; and that those of English writers shall follow as 
additional songs, for the choice of the singer. 

What you say of the Ewe-bughts is just ; I admire it, and never 
meant to supplant it. All I requested was, that you would try 
your hand on some of the inferior stanzas, which are apparently no 
part of the original song ; but this I do not urge, because the song 
is of sufficient length though those inferior stanzas be omitted, as 
they will be by the singer of taste. You must not think I expect 
all the songs to be of superlative merit ; that were an unreasona- 
ble expectation. I am sensible that no poet can sit down doggedjy 
to pen verses and succeed well at all times, 



472 BURNS' WORKS* 

I am highly pleased with your humorous and amorous rhapsody 
on Bonnie Leslie: it is a thousand times better than the Collier's 
Lassie : " The deil he couldna scaith thee," &c. is an eccentric and 
happy thought. Do you not think, however, that the names of 
such old heroes as Alexander, sound rather queer, unless in pomp- 
ous or mere burlesque verse 1 Instead of the line, " And never 
made anither," I would humbly suggest, "And ne'er made sio 
anither ;" and I would fain have you substitute some other line for 
" Return to Caledonie," in the last verse, because 1 think this 
alteration in the orthography, and of the sound of Caledonia, dis- 
figures the word, and renders it Hudibrastic. 

Of the other song, My wife's a winsome toee thing, I think the 
first eight lines are very good ; but I do not admire the other eight, 
because four of them are bare repetitions of the first verses. I 
have been trying to spin a stanza, but could make nothing better 
than the following ; do you mend it, or as Yorick did with the 
love-letter, whip it up in your own way. 

O leeze me on my wee thing. 
My bonnie blythesome wee thing ; 
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing 
I'll think my lot divine. 

Tho' warld's care we share o't, 

And may see meikle mair o't, 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, 
And ne'er a word repine. 



You perceive, my dear sir, I avail myself of the liberty which 
you condescend to allow me by speaking freely what I think. Be 
assured, it is not my disposition to pick out the faults of any poem, 
or picture 1 see ; my first and chief object is to discover and be de- 
lighted with the beauties of the piece. If I sit down to examine 
critically, and at leisure, what perhaps you have written in haste, 
I may happen to observe careless lines, the re-perusal of which 
might lead you to improve them. The wren will often see what 
has been overlooked by the eagle. 

I remain yours, faithfully, &c. 

P. S. Your verses upon Highland Mary are just come to hand ; 
they breathe the genuine spirit of poetry, and, like the music, will 
last for ever. Such verses united to such an air, with the delicate 
harmony of Pleyel supperadded, might form a treat worthy of being 
presented to Apollo himself. I have heard the sad story of your 
Mary : you always seem inspired when you write of her. 



No. VIII. 
MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 






Dumfries, 1st December, 1792. 
Your alterations of my Nannie are perfectly right. So are those 
of " My wife's a wanton wee thing." Your alteration of the second 
stanza is a positive improvement. Now, my dear sir, with the 
freedom which characterises our correspondence, I must not, can- 
not alter "Bonnie Leslie." You are right, the word " Alexander" 
makes the line a little uncouth, but I think the thought is pretty. 
Of Alexander, beyond all other heroes, it may be said, in the sub- 
lime language of scripture, that " he went forth conquering and to 
conquer." 






CORRESPONDENCE. 473 

" For nature made her what she is, 

And never made anither," (such a person as she is.) 

This is in my opinion more poetical than " Ne'er made sic an- 
ither." However, it is immaterial : Make it either way.* " Cale- 
donie," I agree with you, is not so good a word as could be wished, 
though it is santioned in three or four instances by Allan Earn- 
say ; but I cannot help it. In short, that species of stanza is 
the most difficult that I have ever tried. 

The " Lea-rig" is as follows. (Where the poet gives the two first 
stanzas as before, p. 268, with the following in addition.) 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo ; 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer my jo ; 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey, 

It mak's my heart sae cherry O, 
To meet thee on the lea rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 

I am interrupted. Yours, &c. 



No. IX. 
ME. BUENS TO ME. THOMSON. 

AULD ROB MORRIS. 

There's auld Eob Morris that wons in yon glen, 
He's the king o' guid fellows, and wale o' auld men ; 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She's sweet as the eVning amang the new hay ; 
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea, 
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 

But Oh ; she's an heiress, and Eobin's a laird, 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard ; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. 

had she but been of a lower degree, 

1 then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me ! 
O, how past describing had then been my bliss, 
As now my distraction no words can express ! 



DUNCAY GEAY. 

Duncan Gray cam here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

On blythe yule night when we were fu', 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

* Mr. Thomson* has decided " Ne'er made sic anither." 



474 BURNS* WORKS. 

Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray*d ; 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig, 

Ha, ha, &c. - 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', 
Spak o* lowpin o'er a linn, 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Slighted love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 
For a haughty hizzie die % 
She may gae to — France for me ! 

Ha, ha, &c. 

How it comes let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg grew sick as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings, 
And Oh, her e'en they spak sic things ! 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Duncan was a lad o* grace, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan could na be her death, 
Swelling pity smoored his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty baith, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

4th December, 1792. 

The foregoing I submit, my dear sir, to your better judgment. 
Acquit them or condemn them as seemeth good in your sight. 
Duncan Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of an air, which 
precludes sentiment. The ludicrous is its ruling feature. 



No. X. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

SONG. 

Tune— " 1 had a horse." 



O poobtith cauld and restless love, 
Ye wreck my peace between yej 

Yet poortith a' I could forgive, 
An* 'twere na' for my Jeanie. 



O why should fate sic pleasure have, 
Life's dearest bands untwining ? 

Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 
Depend on fortune's shining ? 



CORRESPONDENCE. 475 



This warld's wealth when I think on, 
It's pride and a' the lave o't ; 

Fie, fie, on silly coward man, 
That he should be the slave o't. 
O why, &c. 

Her een sae bonnie blue betray, 
How she repays my passion ; 

But prudence is her o'erword aye, 
She talks of rank and fashion. 



O wha can prudence think upon, 
And sae in love as I am ? 
O why, &c. 

How blest the humble cotter's fate I 
He wooes his simple dearie , 

The silly bogles wealth and state, 
Can never make them eerie. 

O why should fate sic pleasure have, 



O whv &c Life's dearest bands untwining ? 

^ I Or why sae sweet a flower as love 

O wha can prudence think upon, Depend on Fortune's shining! 



And sic a lassie by him? 



GALLA WATER. 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander thro* the blooming heather ; 

But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Galla water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 

Aboon them a' I loe him better 
And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 

The bonnie lad o' Galla Water. 

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 

And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher ; 
Yet rich in kindness, truest love, 

We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure ; 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
that's the chiefest warld's treasure. 

January, 1793. 
Many returns of the season to you, my dear sir. How comes on 
your publication? will these two foregoing be of any service to 
you? I should like to know what songs you print to each tune, 
besides the verses to which it is set. In short, I would wish to 
give you my opinion on all the poetry you publish. You know, it 
is my trade ; and a man in the way of his trade may suggest useful 
hints, that escape men of much superior parts and endowments in 
other things. 

No. XI. 

MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, January 20th, 1793. 
You make me happy, my dear sir, and thousands will be happy to 
see the charming songs you have sent me. Many merry returns of 
the season to you, and may you long continue among the sons and 
daughters of Caledonia, to delight them, and to honour yourself. 

The four last songs with which you favoured me, for Auld Rob 
Morris, Duncan Gray, Galla Water, and Cauld Kail, are admir- 
able. Duncan is indeed a lad of grace, and his humour will endear 
him to every body. 



476 burns' works. 

The distracted lover in Auld Rob, and the happy shepherdess in 
Galla Water, exhibit an excellent contrast ; they speak from 
genuine feeling, and powerfully touch the heart. 

The number of songs which I had originally in view was very 
limited, but I now resolve to include every Scotch air and song 
worth singing ; leaving none behind but mere gleanings, to which 
the publishers of omnegatherum are welcome. I would rather be 
the editor of a collection from which nothing could be taken away, 
than of one to which nothing could be added. We intend pre- 
senting the subscribers with two beautiful stroke engravings ; the 
one characteristic of the plaintive, and the other of the lively 
songs; and I have Dr. Beattie's promise of an essay on the subject 
of our national music, if his health will permit him to write it. As 
a number of our songs have doubtless been called forth by particu- 
lar events or by the peerless charms of peerless damsels, there must 
be many curious anecdotes relating to them. 

The late Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, I believe, knew more of 
this than anybody, for he joined to the pursuits of an antiquary, a 
taste for poetry, besides being a man of the world, and possessing 
an enthusiasm for music beyond most of his contemporaries. He 
was quite pleased with this plan of mine, for I may say, it has been 
solely managed by me, and we had several conversations about it, 
when it was in embryo. If I could simply mention the name of 
the heroine of each song, and the incident which occasioned the 
verses, it would be gratifying. Pray, will you send me any infor- 
mation of this sort, as well with regard to your own songs, as the 
old ones ? 

To all the favourite songs of the plaintive or pastoral kind, will 
be joined the delicate accompaniments, &c. of Pleydell. To those 
of the comic or humorous class, I think accompaniments scarcely 
necessary ; they are chiefly fitted for the conviviality of the festive 
board, and a tuneful voice, with a proper delivery of the words, 
renders them perfect. Nevertheless, to these I propose adding 
bass accompaniments, because then they are fitted either for sing- 
ing, or for instrumental performance, when there happens to be no 
singer. I mean to employ our right trusty friend Mr. Clarke to 
/ set the bass to these, which he assures me he will do, con amove* 

and with much greater attention than he ever bestowed upon any 
thing of the kind. But for this last class of airs, I will not attempt 
to find more than one set of verses. 

That eccentric bard Peter Pindar, has started I know not how 
many difficulties, about writing for the airs 1 sent to him, because 
of the peculiarity of their measure, and the trammels they impose 
on his flying Pegasus. I subjoin for your perusal the only one I 
have yet got from him, being the fine air "Lord Gregory." The 
Scots verses printed with that air, are taken from the middle of an 
old ballad, called, The Lass of Lochroyan, which I do not admire. 
I have set down the air therefore as a creditor of yours. Many of 
the Jacobite songs are replete with wit and humour ,* might not the 
best of these be included in our volume of comic songs I 



CORRESPONDENCE. 477 

POSTSCRIPT. 

FROM THE Hon. A. ERSKINE. 

Mr. Thomson has been so obliging as to give me a perusal of your 
songs. Highland Mary is most enchantingly pathetic, and Duncan 
Gray possesses native genuine humour; "spak o' lowpin o'er a 
linn," is a line of itself that should make you immortal. I some- 
times hear of you from our mutual friend C. who is a most excel- 
lent fellow, and possesses, above all men I know, the charm of a 
most obliging disposition. You kindly promised me, about a year 
ago, a collection of your unpublished productions, religious and 
amorous ; I know from experience how irksome it is to copy. If 
you will get any trusty person in Dumfries to write them over fair, 
I will give Peter Hill whatever money he asks for his trouble ; and 
I certainly shall not betray your confidence. 

I am, your hearty admirer, 

ANDREW ERSKINE. 

MR. BURNS to MR. .THOMSON. 

26th January, 179B. 
I approve greatly, my dear sir, of your plans. Dr. Beattie's es3ay 
will of itself be a treasure. On my part, I mean to draw up an ap- 
pendix to the Doctor's essay, containing my stock of anecdotes, &c. 
of our Scots songs. All the late Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I have by 
me, taken down in the course of my acquaintance with him from 
his own mouth. I am such an enthusiast, that in the course of my 
several peregrinations through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to 
the individual spot from which every song took its rise, " Locha- 
ber, v and the " Braes of Ballenden," excepted. So far as the loca- 
lity, either from the title of the air, or the tenor of the song, could 
be ascertained, I have paid my devotions at the particular shrine 
of every Scotch muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make a very valuable collection of 
Jacobite songs— but would it give no offence? In the mean time, 
do not you think that some of them, particularly " The Sow's tail 
to Geordie," as an air, with other words, might be well worth a 
place in your collection of lively songs f 

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, it would be proper 
to have one set of Scots words to every air, and that the set of 
words to which the notes ought to be set. There is a naivete, a 
pastoral simplicity, in a slight intermixture of Scots words and 
phraseology, which is more in unison (at least to my taste, and I 
will add, to every genuine Caledonian taste,) with the simple pa- 
thos, or rustic sprightliness of our native music, than any English 
verses whatever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar, is an acquisition to your work. 
His " Gregory" is beautiful. I have tried to give you a set of stan- 
zas in Scots, on the same subject, which are at your service. Not 
that I intend to enter the lists with Peter ; that would be presump- 
tion indeed. My song, though much inferior in poetic merit, has I 
think more of the ballad simplicity in it. 

***** 






478 BURNS* WORKS, 



LORD GREGORY. 

O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour, 

And loud the tempests roar ; 
A waeful wanderer seeks thy tower 

Lord Gregory ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha*, 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw, 

If love it may na be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove 

By bonnie Irwine side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin love 

I lang, lang had denied. 

How aften didst thou pledge and vow, 

Thou wad for aye be mine ; 
And my fond heart, itsel sae true, 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast ; 
Thou dart of hea^n that flashest by, 

O wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from above 

Your willing victim see ! 
But spare and pardon my fause love, 

His wrangs to heaven and me !* 

My most respectable compliments to the honourable gentleman- 
who favoured me with a postscript in your last. He shall hear from 
me and his MSS. soon. 



•The song of Dr. Walcott on the same subject is as follow : 

Ah ope, Lord Gregory thy door, 

A midnight wanderer sighs ; 
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar, 

And lightnings cleave the skies. 

Who comes with woe at this drear night— 

A pilgrim of the gloom, 
If she whose love did once delight, 

My cot shall yield her room, 

Alas ! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn, 

That once was priz'd by thee : 
Think of the ring by yonder burn 

Thou gav'st to love and me. 

y* But should'st thou not poor Marian know, 

I'll turn my feet and part ; 
And think the storms that round me blow, 
Far kinder than thy heart. 

It is but doing justice to Dr Walcott to mention, that his song is original. Mr. 
Burns saw it. liked it, and immediately wrote the other on the same subject, 
which is derived from an old Scottish ballad of uncertain origin. 



CORRESPONfcEKCE . 479 

NO. XIII. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

20th March, W3. 
MARY MORISON. 
Tune—" Bide ye yet." 

Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ; 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poor; 
How blythely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling string, 

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat but neither heard nor saw ; 
Tho* this was fair, and that was braw 

And you the toast of a' the town, 

1 sigh'd, and said, amang them a% 
" Ye are na Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ! 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee. 
If love for love thou wilt nae gie, 
At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 
****** 
Mr dear sir, 
The song prefixed is one of my juvenile works. I leave it in 
your hands. I do not think it very remarkable, either for its 
merits, or demerits. It is impossible (at least I feel it so in my 
stinted powers) to be always original, entertaining, and witty. 

What is become of the list, &c. of your songs ] I shall be out 
of all temper with you by and by. I have always looked on my- 
self as the prince of indolent correspondents, and valued myself 
accordingly : and I will not, cannot bear rivalship from you, or 
any body else. 

No. XIV. 
MR. BURNS to MR, THOMSON. 
March, 1793. 
WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame, 

Come to my bosom my ae only dearie, 
And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same, 



480 



burns' works. 



Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting ! 

It was nae the blast brought the tear in my e'e ! 
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie, 

The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Ye hurricanes rest in the cave o' your slumbers, 

how your wild horrors a lover alarms : 
Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, 

And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But if he's forgotten his faithf ulest Nannie, 

O still flow between us, thou wide roaring main : 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 

But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 

+h "<n> ^r* "*f* sfi 

I leave it to you, my dear sir, to determine whether the above, 
or the old " Through the lang Muir" be the best. 



/ 



No. XV. 
MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 
OPEN THE DOOR TO ME OH 

WITH ALTERATIONS. 

Oh open the door, some pity to show, 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh. 
Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh. 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 

But caulder thy love for me, Oh : 
The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 

Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh. 

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 

And time is setting with me, Oh : 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for ever mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, Oh. 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide, 
She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh : 

My true love, she cried, and sank down by his side, 
Never to rise again, Oh. 

I do not know whether this song be really mended. 



No. XYI. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

JESSIE. 

Tune — "Bonny Dundee" 

True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, 
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, 

But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, 
Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair ; 

To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 
To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain, 






CORRESPONDENCE. 481 



Grace, beauty and elegance fetter her lover, 
And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely youDg Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose, 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law : 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger, 

Her modest demeanor's the jewel of a'. 



No. XVII. 
MR. THOMSOX to MR BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 2d April, 1793. 
I will not recognise the title you give yourself, * the prince of 
indolent correspondents ;'' but if the adjective were taken away, I 
think the title would then fit you exactly, It gives me pleasure to 
find you can furnish anecdotes with respect; to most of the song3 ; 
these will be a literary curiosity. 

I now send you my list of the songs, which I believe will be found 
nearly complete. 1 have put down the first lines of all the Eng- 
lish songs, which I propose giving in addition to the Scotch verses. 
If any others occur to you, better adapted to tbe character of the 
airs, pray mention them, when you favour me with your strictures 
upon every thing else relating to the work. 

Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the songs, with his sym- 
phonies and accompaniments added to them. I wish you were here, 
that I might serve up some of them to you with your own verse, 
by way of desert after dinner. There is so much delightful fancy 
in the symphonies, and such a delicate simplicity in the accom- 
paniments : they are indeed beyond all praise. 

I am very much pleased with the several last productions of your 
muse : your Lord Gregory, in my estimation, is more interesting 
than Peter's, beautiful as his is ! Your Here Awa Willie must un- 
dergo some alterations to suit the air. Mr. Erskine and I have been 
conning it over : he will suggest what is necessary to make them a 
fit match.* 

* WANDERING WILLIE. 

A3 ALTERED BY ME. ERSKINE AND MR. THOMSON". 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie; 

Here awa, there awa, haud awahame; 
Come to my bosom my ain only dearie, 

Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 
Winter- winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, 

Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e ; 
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 

As simmer to nature, so Willie to me. 

Rest ye wild storms in the cave o' your slumbers, 

How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Blow soft, ye breezes ! roll gently ye billows ! 

And waft my dear laddie ance rnair to my arms. 
But oh, if he's faithless and minds nae his Nannie, 

Flow still between us, thou dark heaving main ! 
JMay I never see it, may I never trow it, 

While, dying, I think that my Willie 3 ain. 
X * 



482 BURNS 9 WORK*. 

The gentleman I have mentioned, whose fine taste you are no 
stranger to, is so well pleased both with the musical and poetical 
part of our work, that he has volunteered his assistance, and has 
already written four songs for it, which, by his own desire, I send 
for your perusal. 

No. XYI1I. 

MR BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

WHEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST WAS BLAWN. 
When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 

And mony a widow mourning, 
I left the lines and tented field, 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor and honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstain'd wi' plunder ; 
And for fair Scotia, hame again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy, 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy : 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen, 

Where early life I sported : 
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn, 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 

Our poet, with his usual judgment, adopted some of these alterations, and re- 
jected others. The last edition is as follows : — 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame : 
Come to my bosom my ain only dearie, 
Tell me thou bring'st me my "Willie the same. 

"Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting « 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e"e. 
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers, 
How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Waken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us tbou wide-roaring main I 
May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 

Several of the alterations seem to be of little importance in themselves, and 
were adopted, it may be presumed, for the sake of suiting the words better to the 
music- 



■ 



CORRESPONDENCE. 483 

Wr alter 'd voice, quoth I, sweet las?, 
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 

! happy, happy may he be, 
That's dearest to thy bosom ; 

My purse is light, I've far to gang, 

And fain wad be thy lodger ; 
Iv'e serv'd my king and country lang, 

Take pity on a sodger. 

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, 

And lovelier was than ever : 
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed : 

Forget him shall 1 never : 
Our humble cot, and hamely fare, 

Ye freely shall partake it, 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't ! 

She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose — 

Syne pale like ony lily ; 
She sank within my arms, and, cried, 

Art thou my ain dear Willie % 
By Him who made yon sun and sky— t 

By whom true love's regarded, 

1 am the man ; and thus may still 

True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 

And find thee still true hearted ; 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailin plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithful sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodger's prize, 

The sodger's wealth is honour; 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger ; 
Remember he's his country's stay 

In day and hour of danger. 



MEG 0' THE MILL. 
Air— m O Bonnie Lass will you lie in a Barrack !" 
ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strapping the Miller was ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord and a hue like a lady ; 
The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ; 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl, 



484 BURNS' WORKS. 

The Miller he hecht her, a heart leal and loving ; 
The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. 

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that's iix'd on a mailin ! 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, 
But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl'. 



No. XIX. 

MR. BURNS to MR, THOMSON. 

7 th April, 1793. 

Thank you my dear sir, for your packet. You cannot imagine how- 
much this business of composing for your publication has added to 
my enjoyments. What with my early attachment to ballads, your 
book, &c, ballad making is now as completely my hobby-horse, as 
ever fortification was Uncle Toby's ; so I'll e'en canter it away till 
1 come to the limit of my race, (God grant that I may take the right 
side of the winning-post !) and then cheerfully looking back on the 
honest folks with whom I have been happy, I shall say, or sing, 
u Sae merry as we a' hae been," and raising my last looks to the 
whole human race, the last words of the voice of Coila* shall be 
" Good night and joy be wi' you a' !" So much for my last words ; 
now for a few present remarks as they have occurred at random on 
looking over your list. 

The first lines of The last time I came o'er the Jfoor, and several 
other lines in it, are beautiful : but in my opinion — pardon me, re- 
vered shade of Ramsay ! the song is unworthy of the divine air. I 
shall try to make or mend. For ever, Fortune wilt thou prove, is a 
charming song ; but Logan bum and Logan braes, are sweetly sus- 
ceptible of rural imagery : I'll try that likewise, and if I succeed, 
the other song may class among the English ones. I remember the 
two last lines of a verse in some of the old songs of Logan Water, 
(for I know a good many different ones) which I think pretty : 

Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes." 

My Patie is a lover gay, is unequal. "His mind is never muddy,' 
is a muddy expression indeed. 

" Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
f And syne my cockernony." 

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or your book. My song* 
Fags of Barley, to the same tune, does not altogether please me, 
but if I can mend it, and thresh a few loose sentiments out of it, I 
will submit it to your consideration. The Lass o Paiie's Mill is 
one of Ramsay's best songs ; but there is one loose sentiment in it, 
which my much- valued friend, Mr. Erskine, will take into his cri- 
tical consideration. In Sir J. Sinclair's Statistical volumes are two 
claims, one, I think, from Aberdeenshire, and the other from Ayr- 
shire, for the honour of this song. The following anecdote, which 

* Burns here calls himself the Voice of Coila, in imitation of Ossian, who de- 
nominates himself the Voice of Cona. Sae merry as we a' hae beAH ; and G 00 * 

aigut a&4 joy fee. wi' you «', aie the maw of two Scottish tunes. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 485 

m 

I had from the present Sir William Cunningham, of Kobertland* 
who had it of the late John, Earl of Loudon, I can on such autho" 
rities believe. 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Castle with the then Earl 
father to Earl John ; and one forenoon, riding, or walking out to- 
gether, his Lordship and A llan passed a sweet, romantic spot on Ir- 
wine water, still called "Patie's Mill," where a bonnie lass was 
"tedding hay, bareheaded on the green." My Lord observed to 
Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the 
hint, and lingering behind, he composed the first sketch of it, 
which he produced at dinner. 

One day I heard Mary say, is a fine song; but for consistency's 
sake, alter the name "Adonis." Was there ever such banns pub- 
lished, as a purpose of marriage between Adonis and Mary I I 
agree with you that my song, There s nought but care on every hand, 
is much superior to Poortith could. The original song The mill, mill 
O, though excellent, is, on account of delicacy, inadmissible ; still 
I like the title, and think a Scottish song would suit the notes best ; 
and let your chosen song, which is very pretty, follow, as an Eng- 
lish set. The Banks of the Dee is, you know, literally Langolee in 
slow time. The song is well enough, but has some false imagery to 
it, for instance, 

l* And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree." 

In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never 
from a tree ; and in the second place, there never was a nightingale 
seen or heard on the Banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any 
other river in Scotland. Exotic rural imagery is always compara- 
tively flat. If I could hit on another stanza equal to The small 
birds rejoice, &c. I do myself honestly avow that I think it a supe- 
rior song.* John Anderson my jo — the song to this tune in John- 
son's Museum, is my composition, and I think it not the worst : If 
it suit you, take it and welcome. Your collection of sentimental 
and pathetic songs, is in my opinion, very complete ; but not so 
your comic ones. Where are Tullochgorum, Lumps o' puddin, Tibbie 
Fowler, and several others, which, in my humble judgment, are 
well worthy of preservation. There is also one sentimental song of 
mine in the Museum, which never was known out of the immedi- 
ate neighbourhood, until I got it taken down from a country girl's 
singing. It is called Craigiebum Wood; and in the opinion of Mr. 
Clarke, is one of our sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite an en- 
thuiast about it ; and I would take his taste in Scottish music against 
the taste of most connoisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last five in your list, though 
they are certainly Irish. Shepherds I have lost my love, is to me a 
heavenly air — what would you think of a set of Scottish verses to 
it ] I have made one to it a good while ago, which I think . . . 

but in its original state is not quite a lady's 

song. I enclosed an altered, not amended copy for you, if you 
choose to set the tune to it, and let the Irish verses follow.f 

* It will be found in the course of this correspondence, that the Bard produced 
a second stanza of " The Chevalier's Lament," (to which he here alludes) worthy 
of the first. 

t Mr. Thomson, it appears, did not approve of this song, even in its altered 



486 BURNS* WORKS* 

Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his Lone Vale is divine. 

Yours, &c. 
Let me know just how you like these random hits. 



No. XX. 

MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, April, 1793. 
I rejoice to find, my dear sir, that ballad-making continues to be 
your hobbyhorse. Great pity 'twould be were it otherwise. I 
hope you will amble it away for many a year and " witch the world 
with your horsemanship." 

I know there are a good many lively songs of merit that I have 
not put down in the list sent you ; but I have them all in my eye. 
My Patien a lover gay, though a little unequal, is a natural and 
very pleasing song, and 1 humbly think we ought not to displace or 
alter it, except the last stanza. 



No. XXI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 

have yours, my dear sir, this moment. I shall answer it and 
your former letter, in my desultory way of saying whatever comes 
uppermost. 

The business of many of our tunes wanting, at the beginning, 
what fiddlers call a starting-note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers. 

•* There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander thro' the blooming heather, 

You may alter to 

" Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
Ye wander," &c. 

My song, Here awa there awa, as mended by Mr. Erskine, I en- 
tirely approve of, and return you.* 

Give me leave to criticise your taste in the only thing in which 
it is in my opinion reprehensible. You know 1 ought to know 
something of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, and point, you 
are a complete judge ; but there is a quality more necessary than 
either, in a song, and which is the very essence of a ballad, I mean 
simplicity ; now, if I mistake not, this last feature you are a little 
apt to sacrifice to the foregoing. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been always equally happy 
in his pieces ; still 1 cannot approve of taking such liberties with 



state. It does not appear in the correspondence ; but is probably one to be found 
in his MSS. beginning, 

" Yestreen I got a pint of wine, 

A place where body saw na : 
Yestreen lay on this breast of mine, 

The gowden locks of Anna." 

It is highly characteristic of our Bard, but the strain of sentiment does not 
correspond with the air, to which he proposes it should be allied. 
* The reader has already seen that Burns did not finally adopt all Mr. Ewfcine'g 

alterations. 






CORRESPONDENCE. 487 

an author as Mr. W. proposes doing with The last time 1 came o'er 
the Moor, Let a poet, if he chooses, take up the idea of another, 
and work it into a piece of his own ; but to mangle the works of 
the poor bard, whose tuneful tongue is now mute for ever, in the 
dark and narrow house — by Heaven 'twould be sacrilege ! I grant 
that Mr. W's version is an improvement; but I know Mr. W. well, 
and esteem him much ; let him amend the song, as the Highlander 
mended his gun : — he gave it a new stock, and a new lock, and a 
new barrel. 

I do not, by this, object to leaving out improper stanzas, where 
that can be done without spoiling the whole. One stanza in The 
Lass o* Patie's mill, must be left out : the song will be nothing 
worse for it. I am not sure if we can take the same liberty with. 
Com Rigs are bonnie.. Perhaps it might want the last stanza, and 
be the better for it. Cauld Kail in Aberdeen, you must leave with 
me yet awhile. I have vowed to have a song to that air on the lady 
whom I attempted to celebrate in the verses, Poortith cauld and rest- 
less Love, At any rate, my other song, Green grow the Rashes, will 
never suit. That song is current in Scotland under the old title, 
and to the merry old tune of that name; which of course would 
mar the progress of your song to celebrity. Your book will be the 
standard of Scotch songs for the future : let this idea ever keep 
your judgment on the alarm. 

I send a song, on a celebrated toast in this country, to suit Bon* 
%ie Dundee. I send you also a ballad to the Mill, mill 0, 

The last time I came o'er the Moor, I would fain attempt to make 
a Scots song for, and let Kamsay's be the English set. You shall 
hear from me soon. When you go to London on this business, can 
you come by Dumfries "? I have still several MSS. Scots airs by me 
which I have picked up, mostly from the singing of country lasses. 
They please me vastly ; but your learned lugs would perhaps be 
displeased with the very feature for which I like them. I call them 
simple; you would pronounce them silly. Do you know a line air 
called Jackie Hume's Lament I I have a song of considerable merit 
to that air. I'll enclose you both the song and tune, as I had them 
ready tofsend to Johnson's Museum.* I send you likewise, to me a 
beautiful little air, which I had taken down from viva voce.f 

Adieu! 

No. XXIL 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

April, 179S, 
Tune—" The last time I came o'er the Moor." 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows 

Around Maria's dwelling ! 
Ah cruel mem'ry ! spare the throes 

Within my my bosom swelling : 

* The Bong here mentioned is that given in No. XVIII. " O ken ye what 
Meg [o' the mill has gotten." This song is surely Mr. Burns' own writing, though 
he does not generally praise his own songs so much. —Note by Mr. Thomson. 

t The air here mentioned is that for which he wrote the hallad of " Bonny 
Jean." 






488 burns' works* 

Condemned to drag a hopeless chain, 

And still in secret languish ; 
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, 

Yet dare not speak my anguish. 

The wretch of love, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my crime would cover : 
The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan 

Betray the hopeless lover. 
I know my doom must be despair, 

Thou wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 
Bat oh, Maria, hear one prayer, 

For pky's sake forgive me. 

The music of thy tongue I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

'Till fears no more had saved me. 
The unwary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent viewing : 
'Mid circling horrors yields at last 

To overwhelming ruin. 

Bear Sir, 
I had scarcely put my last; letter into the post office, when I took 
up the subject of The last time I came o'er the Moor, and ere I slept 
1 drew the outlines of the foregoing. How far I have succeeded, I 
leave on this, as on every other occasion, to you to decide. I own 
my vanity is flattered, when you give my songs a place in your ele- 
gant and superb work ; but to be of service to the work is my first 
wish. As I have often told you, I do not in a single instance wish 
you, out of compliment to me, to insert any thing of mine. One hint 
let me give you — whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter one iota 
of the original Scottish airs; I mean, in the song department; but 
let our national music preserve its native features. They are, I 
own, frequently wild and irreducible to the more modern rules ; 
but that on very eccentricity, perhaps depends a great part of their 
effect. 



No. XXIII. 
MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 26th April, 1793. 

I heartily thank you, my dear sir, for your last two letters, and the 
song which accompanied them. I am always both instructed and 
entertained by your observations ; and tho frankness with which 
you speak your mind, is to me highly agreeable. It is very possible 
I may not have the true idea of simplicity in composition. I con- 
fess there are several songs of Allan Ramsay's, for example, that I 
think silly enough, which another person more conversant than I 
have been with country people, would perhaps call simple and na- 
tural. But the lowest scenes of simple nature will not please gen- 
erally, if copied precisely as they are. The poet, like the painter, 
must select what will form an agreeable as well as a natural pic- 
ture. On this subject it were easy to enlarge ; but at present suf- 



correspondence: 489 

fice it to say, that 1 consider simplicity, rightly understood, as a 
most essential quality in composition, and the ground- work of beauty 
in all the arts. I will gladly appropriate your most interesting new 
ballad When wild Wars deadly blast, &c. to the Mill mill, 0, as 
well as the other two songs to their respective airs; but the third and 
fourth line of the first verses must undergo some little alteration in 
order to suit the music* Pleyel does not alter a single note of the 
songs. That would be absurd indeed ! With the airs which he 
introduces into the sonatas, 1 allow him to take such liberties as he 
pleases, but that has nothing to do with the songs. 
• ••••• 

P. S. — I wish you would do as you proposed with your Rigs o' 
Barley. If the loose sentiments were threshed out of it, I will find 
an air for it ; but as to this there is no hurry. 



No. XXIY. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMPSON. 

June, 1793. 

When I tell you, my dear sir, that a friend of mine, in whom I am 
much interested, has fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you 
will easily allow that it might unhinge me for doing any good 
among ballads. My own loss, as to pecuniary matters, is trifling; 
but the total ruin of a much-loved friend, is a loss indeed. Pardon 
my seeming inattention to your last commands. 

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the Mill mill 0. What you 
think a defect I esteem as a positive beauty : so you see how doc- 
tors differ. I shall now, with as much alacrity as I can muster, go 
on with your commands. 

You know Eraser, the hautboy player in Edinburgh — he is here 
instructing a band of music for a fencible corps quartered in this 
country. Among many of the airs that please me, there is one well 
known as a reel by the name of The Quaker's Wife ; and which I 
remember a grand aunt of mine used to sing, by the name of 
Liggeram cosh, my bonny wee lass. Mr. Fraser plays it slow, and 
with an expression that quite charms me. I became such an en- 
thusiast about it, that I made a song for it, which I here subjoin ; 
and enclose Fraser's set of the tune. If they hit your fancy, they 
are at your service : if not, return me the tune, and I will put it 
in Johnson's Museum. I think the song is not in my worst manner. 

* The lines were the third and fourth. 

" Wr mony a sweet babe fatherless, 
And mony a widow mourning." 

As our poet had maintained a long silence, and the first number of Mr. 
Thomson's Musical Work was in the press, this gentleman ventured, by Mr. Ers- 
kine's advice, to substitute for them in that publication, 

" And eyes again with pleasure beamed 
That had been bleared with mourning.' ' 

Though better suited to the music, these lines are inferior to the original. This 
is the only alteration, adopted by Mr. Xhcmson, which Burns did not approve or 
at least agent to. 

x 5 



490 burns' works; 

Tune—" Liggeram cosh." 

Blithe hae I been on yon hill, 

As the lamb3 before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze flew o'er me : 
Now nae langer sport and play, 

Mirth or sang can please me : 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 

Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glowr, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the thaws, 

In my bosom swelling ; 
Underneath the grass green sod, 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 

I should wish to hear how this pleases you, 



No. XXV. 
MR BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

January, 5, 1 793, 
Have you ever, my dear sir, felt your bosom ready to burst with 
indignation on reading of those mighty villains who divide king- 
dom against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste 
out of the wantonness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble 
passions ] In a mood of this kind to day, I recollected the air of 
Logan water ; and it occurred to me that its querulous melody pro- 
bably had its origin from the plaintive indignation of some swel- 
ling, suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides of some public 
destroyer ; and overwhelmed with private distress, the consequence 
of a country's ruin. If I have done any thing at all like justice to 
my feelings, the following song, composed in three quarters of an 
hour's meditation in my elbow chair, ought to have some merit. 
Tunz — "Logan water. 

O, Logan sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sum 
But now the flowery banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month o' May, 

Has made our hills and valleys gay ; 

The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 

The bees hum round the breathing flowers : 

Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye, 

And evening's tears are tears of joy ; 

My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 

While Willie's far frae Logan braes* 



ii 



CORRESPONDENCE. 491 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile ; 
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

O wae upon you, men o* state, 

That brethren rouse to deadly hate t 

As ye mak mony a fond heart mourn, 

Sae may it on your heads return ! 

How can your flinty hearts enjoy, 

The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ; 

But soon may peace bring happy days 

And Willie name to Logan braes ! 

• • • • • • 

Do you know the following beautiful little fragment, in Wither- 
spoon's Collection of Scots Songs % 

" gin my love were yon red rose 

"That grows upon the castle wa', 
" And I mysel' a drap o' dew, 

u Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 

■* Oh ! there beyond expression blest, 

" I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; 
" Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 

"Till fley'd away by Pheebus' light." 

This thought is inexpressibly beautiful ; aud quite, so far as I 
know, original. It is too short for a song, else I would forswear 
you altogether, unless you gave it a place. I have often tried to eke 
out a stanza to it, but in vain, after balancing myself for a musing 
five minutes, on the hind legs of my elbow chair, I produced the 
following. 

The verses are far inferior to the foregoing I frankly confess ; bu£ 
if worthy of insertion at all, they might be first in place; as evry 
poet who knows any thing of his trade, will husband his best 
thoughts for a concluding stroke. 

were my love yon lilach fair, 
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; 

And I a bird to shelter there 
When wearied on my little wing. 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing, 
When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd, 



No. XXYI. 

MR. THOMSON to ME. BURNS. 

Monday, 1st July, 1793. 
I AM extremely sorry, my good sir, that any thing should happen 









492 burns' works! 

to unhinge you. The times are terribly out of tune, and when 
harmony will be restored, heaven knows. 

The first book of songs, just published, will be despatched to you 
along with this. Let me be favoured with your opinion of it frankly 
and freely. 

I shall certainly give a place to the song you have written for the 
Quaker's Wife ; it is quite enchanting. Pray, will you return the 
list of songs, with such airs added to it as you think ought to be 
included. The business now rests entirely on myself, the gentleman 
who originally agreed to join in the speculation having requested 
to be off. No matter ; a loser I cannot be. The superior excel- 
lence of the work will create a general demand for it, as soon as it 
is properly known. And were the sale even slower than what it 
promises to be, I should be somewhat compensated for my labour, 
by the pleasure I should receive from the music. I cannot express 
how much I am obliged to you for the exquisite new songs you are 
sending me ; but thanks, my friend, are a poor return for what you 
have done : as I shall be benefitted by the publication, you must 
suffer me to enclose a small mark of my gratitude, and to repeat it 
afterwards when I find it convenient. Do not return it, for by 
heaven, if you do, our correspondence is at an end ; and though this 
would be no loss to you, it would mar the publication, which, un- 
der your auspices, cannot fail to be respectable and interesting. 
• • • • 

Wednesday morning. 
I thank you for your delicate additional verses to the old frag- 
ment, and for your excellent song of Logan water : Thomson's truly 
elegant one will follow for the English singer. Your apostrophe to 
statesmen, is admirable, but I am not sure if it is quite suitable to 
the supposed gentle character of the fair mourner who speaks it. 



No. XXY1I. 

ME. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 
My Dear Sik, July 2, 1793, 

I have just finished the following ballad, and as 1 do think it in 
my best style, I send it you. Mr, Clarke, who wrote down the air 
from Mrs. Burns' wood-note wild, is very fond of it; and has given 
it a celebrity by teaching it to some young ladies of the first fashion 
here. If you do not like the air enough to give it a place in your 
collection, please return it. The song you may keep, as I remem- 
ber it. 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 

At kirk and market to be seen ; 
When a' the fairest maids were met, 

The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, 

And aye she sang sae merrilie ; 
The bl) thest bird upon the bush 

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 



I 



CORRESPONDENCE^ 493 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 

That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; 
And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 

And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Eobie was the brawest lad, 

The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, 

And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryst, 

He danced wi* Jeanie on the down ; 
And land ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 

As in the bosom o' the stream, 

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ; 
So trembling pure, was tender love 

Within the breast o' bonnie Jean.* 

And now she works her mammie's wark, 

And aye she sighs wi' care and pain ; 
Yet wist na what her all might be, 

Or what wad mak her weel again. 

But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, 

And did na joy blink in her e'e, 
As Robie tauld a tale o' love 

Ae e'enin, on the lily lea 1 

The sun was sinking in the west, 

The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 
His cheek to hers he fondly prest, 

And whisper'd thus his tale o' love. 

Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

O canst thou think to fancy me 1 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me. 

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, 

Or nae thing else to trouble thee; 
But stray amang the heather-bells, 

And tent the waving corn wi' me. 

£Tow what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had na will to say him na : 
At length she blushed a sweet consent, 

And love was aye between them twa. 

I have some thoughts of inserting in your index, or in my notes, 
the names of the fair ones, the themes of my songs. I do not mean 
the name at full ; but dashes or asterisms, so as ingenuity may find 
them out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M. daughter to Mr. M. of 
D. one of your subscribers, I have not painted her in the rank 
which she holds in life, but in the dress and character of a cottager. 

*ln the original MS. our poet asks Mr, Thomson if this stanza is not original? 



494 burns' works^ 

No. XXVIII. 
ME. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

/uty, 3793. 

I assure you, my dear sir, that you truly hurt me with your pecu- 
niary parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. However, to return 
it would savour of affectation ; but as to any more traffic of that 
debtor and creditor kind, I swear by that Honour which crowns the 
upright statue of Robert Burrs' Integrity — on the least motion of 
it, I will indignantly spurn the by-past transaction, and from that 
moment commence entire stranger to you ] Burns' character for 
generosity of sentiment and independence of mind will, I trust, 
long outlive any of his wants, which the cold unfeeling ore can sup- 
ply ; at least, I will take care that such a character he shall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publication. Never did my eyea 
behold, in any musical work, such elegance and correctness. Tour 
preface, too, is admirably written ; only, your partiality to me has 
made you say too much ; however, it will bind me down to double 
every effort in the future progress of the work. The following are 
a few remarks on the songs in the list you sent me. I never copy 
what I write to you, so I may be often tautological, or perhaps con- 
tradictory. 

The Flowers of the Forest is charming as a poem ; and should be, 
and must be, set to the notes ; but, though out of your rule, the 
three stanzas, beginning, 

" I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling," 

are worthy of a place, were it but to immortalize the author of them, 
who is an old lady of my acquaintance, and at this moment living 
in Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn ; I forget of what place ; 
but from Roxburghshire. What a charming apostrophe is 

" O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting, 
"Why, why torment us— poor sons of a day !" 

The old ballad, / wish I were where Helen lies, is silly, to con- 
temptibility. My alteration of it, in Johnson's, is not much better. 
Mr. Pinkerton, in his, what he calls, Ancient Ballads (many of them 
notorious, though beautiful enough forgeries) has the best set. It 
is full of his own interpolations — but no matter. 

In my next, I will suggest to your consideration, a few songs which 
may have escaped your hurried notice. In the meantime, allow 
me to congratulate you now, as a brother of the quill. You have 
committed your character and fame ; which will now be tried, for 
ages to come, by the illustrious jury of the Sons and Daughters of 
Taste — all whom poesy can please, or music charm. 

Being a bard of nature, I have some pretensions to second sight ; 
and I am warranted by the spirit to foretell and affirm, that your 
great grandchild will hold up your volumes, and say, with honest 
pride, "This so much admired selection was the work of my ancestor," 

No. XXIX. 

MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

Deir Sir, Edinburgh, August, 1793. 

I had the pleasure of receiving your last two letters, and am happy 



CORRESPONDENCE. 495 

to find you are quito pleased with the appearance of the first book. 
When you come to hear the songs sung and accompanied, you will 
be charmed with them. 

The bonnie brucJcet Lassie, certainly deserves better verses, and I 
hope you will match her. Cauld Kail in Aberdeen, Let me in this 
ae night, and several of the livelier airs, wait the muse's leisure ; 
these are peculiarly worthy of her choicest gifts ; besides, you'll 
notice, that in the airs of this sort, the singer can always do greater 
justice to the poet, than in the slower airs of The bush aboon Tra- 
quair, Lord Gregory, and the like ,* for in the manner the latter are 
frequently sung, you must be contented with the sound, without 
the sense. Indeed, both the airs and words are disguised by the 
very slow, languid, psalm-singing style in which they are too often 
performed : they lose animation and expression altogether, and in- 
stead of speaking to the mind, or touching the heart, they cloy 
upon the ear, and set us a yawning ! 

Your ballad, There was a lass and she was fair, is simple and 
beautiful, and shall undoubtedly grace my collection. 



NO XXX. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

Mt Dear Thompson, August, 1793. 

I hold the pen for our friend Clarke, who, at present, is studying 
the music of the spheres at my elbow. The Georgium Sidus, he 
thinks, is rather out of tune ; so until he rectify that matter, he 
cannot stoop to terrestrial affairs. 

He sends you six of the Rondeau subjects, and if more are 
wanted, he says you shall have them. 

* * % * * 

Confound your long stairs ! 

S. CLARKE. 



No. XXXI. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
Your objection my dear sir, to the passages in my song Logan Wa* 
ter, is right in one instance ; but it is difficult to mend it : If I can, 
I will. The other passage you object to does not appear in the 
same light to me. 

I have tried my hand on Robin Adair, and you will probably 
think, with little success ; but it is such a cursed, cramp, out of the 
way measure, that I despair of doing any thing better to it. 

7& 7t* 7K Tp* Tfs" 

PHILLIS THE FAIR. 
Tune—" Robin Adair." 

While larks with little wing, 

Fann'd the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing springy 

Forth I did fare; 



496 BURNS' WORKS. 

Gay the sun's golden eye, 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high ; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 
Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless song, 

Glad, I did share ; 
While yon wild flowers among, 

Chance led me there ; 
Sweet to the opening day, 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ; 
Such thy bloom, did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were, 
I rnark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may fortune be, 
Such make his destiny ! 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 

So much for namby pamby. I may, after all try my hand on it 
in Scots verse. There I always find myself most at home. 

I have just put the last hand to the song I meant for Cauld Kail 
in Aberdeen.. If it suits you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as the 
heroine is a favourite of mine : if not, I shall also be pleased ; be- 
cause I wish and will be glad, to see you act decidedly on the bu- 
siness.* Tis a tribute as a man of taste, and as an editor, which 
you owe yourself. 

No. XXXII. 
MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

My Good Sir, August, 1793. 

I consider it one of the most agreeable circumstances attending 
this publication of mine, that it has procured me so many of your 
much valued epistles. Pray make my acknowledgments to St. 
Stephen for the tunes; tell him I admit the justness of his conij 
plaint on my stair-case, conveyed in his laconic postscript to your 
jeu a" esprit ; which I perused more than once, without discovering 
exactly whether your discussion was music, astronomy, or politics ; 
though a sagacious friend, acquainted with the convivial habits of 
the poet and the musician, offered me a bet of two to one, you 
were just drowning care together ; that an empty bowl was the 
only thing that would deeply affect you, and the only matter you 
could then study how to remedy ! 

I shall be glad to see you give Robin Adair a Scottish dress. 
Peter is furnishing him with an English suit for a change, and 
you are well matched together. Robin's air is excellent, though 
he certainly has an out of the way measure as ever poor Parnassian 
Tvight was plagued with. I wish you would invoke the muse for a 
single elegant stanza to be substituted for the concluding objec- 

* The long lent herewith is that in p. 474. 



CORRESP0NDENCE. 497 

tionable verses of Down the burn Davie, so that this most exquisite 
song may no longer be excluded from good company. 

Mr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing from your John An* 
derson my Jo, which I am to have engraved, as a frontispiece to the 
humorous class of songs ; you will be quite charmed with it, I pro- 
mise you. The old couple are seated by the fireside. Mrs. Ander- 
son, in great good humour, is clapping John's shoulders, while he 
smiles and looks at her with such glee, as to show that he fully 
recollects the pleasant days and nights when they were first acquent. 
The drawing would do honour to the pencil of Teniers. 



No. XXXIII. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

That crinkum crankum tune, Robin Adair, has run so in my head, 
and I succeeded so ill in my last attempt, that I have ventured in 
this morning's walk, one essay more. You, my dear sir, will re- 
member an unfortunate part of our worthy friend C.'s story, 
which happened about three years ago. That struck my fancy, 
and I endeavoured to do the idea justice, as follows. 



SONG. 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 

Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing roar : 

There would I weep my woes, 

There seek my last repose, 

Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air ! 

To thy new lover hie, 

Laugh o'er thy perjury, 

Then in thy bosom try 
What peace is there : 

By the way, I have met with a musical Highlander, in Breadal- 
bane's fencibles, which are quartered here, who assures me that he 
well remembers his mother's singing Gaelic songs both to Robin 
Adair and Gramachree. They certainly have more of the Scotch 
than Irish taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of Inverness ; so it could not 
be any intercourse with Ireland that could bring them ; — except, 
what I shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wandering minstrels, 
harpers, and pipers, used to go frequently errant through the wilds 
both of Scotland and Ireland, and so some favourite airs might be 
common to both. — A case in point — They have lately, in Ireland, 
published an Irish air, as they say, called " Caun du delish." The 
fact is, in a publication of Corri's, a great while ago, you will find 
the same air, called a Highland one, with a Gaelic song set to it. 
Its name there, I think, is " Oran Gaoil" and a fine air it is. Do 
ask honest Allan, or the Rev. Gaelic Parson, about these matters. 



498 burns' works. 

No. XXXIV. 
MR. BUKNS to MR. THOMPSON. 

My Dear Sir, August, 1793. 

" Let me in this ae night," I will re-consider. I am glad you are 
pleased with my song, " Had I a cave," &c. as I liked it myself. 

I walked out yesterday evening, with a volume of the Museum 
in my hand ; when turning up " Allan Water," " What numbers 
shall the muse repeat," &c, as the words appeared to me rather un- 
worthy of so fine an air : and recollecting that it is on your list, I 
sat and raved under the shadow of an old thorn, till I wrote out 
one to suit the measure. I may be wrong, but I think it not in 
my worst style. You must know, that in Ramsay's Tea-table, 
where the modern song first appeared, the ancient name of the 
tune, Allan says, is " Allan Water," or, " My love Annie's very 
bonnie." This last has certainly been a line of the original song ; 
so I took up the idea, and, as you will see, have introduced the 
line in its place, which I presume it formerly occupied ; though I 
likewise give you a " choosing line," that should not hit the cut of 
your fancy. 

7& 7& /£ t£ 3fc 

Br Allan-stream I chanced to rove, 

While Poebus sank beyond Benleddi ;* 
The winds were whispering through the grove, 

The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listen'd to a lover's sang, 

And thought on youthfu* pleasures mony : 
And aye the wild- wood echoes rang — 

dearly do I lo'e thee Annie.+ 

happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I met my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinking said, " I'm thine for ever !" 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest, 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, 

The simmer joys the flocks to follow; 
How cheery, through her shortening day, 

Is autumn in her weeds o' yellow ; 
But can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart, 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure. 






Bravo ! say I ; it is a good song. Should you think so too, (not 
else) you can set the music to it, and let the other follow as Eng- 
Ush verses. 

* A mountain west of Strath- Allan, 3000 feet high.— R. B. 
t Or, "Omy love Annie's Yery bonnie."— R. B. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 499 

Autunm is my propitious season, I make more verses in it than 
in all the year else. 

God bless you ! 



No. XXXV. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
Is Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad, one of your airs 1 I ad- 
mire it much : and yesterday I set the following verses to it. Ur- 
bani, whom I met with here, begged them of me, as he admires the 
air much ; but as I understand that he looks with rather an evil 
eye on your work, I did not choose to comply. However, if the 
song does not suit your taste, I may possibly send it to him. The 
set of the air which I had in my eye, is in Johnson's Museum. 
* * * * 

O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad,* 

whistle and I'll come to you, my lad ; 

Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 

whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent when ye come to court me, 
And come nae unless the back-yett be ajee ; 
Syne up the back style, and let nae body see, 
And come as ye were nae comin' to me. 
And come, &c. 

whistle, &c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye cared nae a flie ; 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, 
Yet look as ye were nae lookin' at me. 
Yet look, &c. 

whistle, &c. 

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court nae anither, tho' jokin ye be, 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear, &c. 

whistle, &e. 
# # # * 

Another favourite air of mine, is, The muckin o' Oeordie's byre. 
When sung slow, with expression, I have wished that it had had 
better poetry ; that I have endeavoured to supply as follows : — 

A down winding Nith I did wander, 

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring : 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 

* In some of the MSS. the first four lines run thus : 

O "whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo, 
O whistle and 111 come to thee, my jo ; 
Tho' father and mother and a' should say no, 
whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo. 



500 BURNS' WORKS. 

CHORUS. 

Awa wi' your belles and your beauties, 

They never wi' her can compare. 
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, 

Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. 

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, 

So artless, so simple, so wild ; 
Thou emblem^ said I, o' my Phillis, 

For she is Simplicity's child. 
Awa, &c. 

The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, 

Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest ; 
How fair and how pure is the lily, 

But fairer and purer her breast. 
Awa, &c. 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 

They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 
Her breath is the breath o* the woodbine, 

Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 
Awa, &c. 

Her voice is the song of the morning, 

That wakes thro' the green spreading grove, 

When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 
Awa, kc. 

But beauty, how frail and how fleeting, 

The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 
While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 

Will flourish without a decay.* 

Awa, &c. 

Mr. Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis a corner in your book, 
as she is a particular flame of his. She is a Miss P. M. sister to 
lonnie Jean. They are both pupils of his. You shall hear from 
me, the very first grist I get from my rhyming mill. 



No. XXXYI. 
ME. BURNS to ME. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

That tune Cavld Kail is such a favourite of yours, that I once 
more roved out yesterday for a gloamin shot at the muses ;t when 
the muse that presides o'er the shores of Nith, or rather my old 
inspiring dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the following. I 
have two reasons for thinking that it was my early, sweet, simple, 
inspirer that was by my elbow, " smooth gliding without step," 

* This song, certainly beautiful, would appear to more advantage without the 
choTus : as is indeed the case with several other songs of our author. 

t Gloamin, — twilight, probably from glooming. A beautiful poetical word 
which ought to be adopted in England. A gloamin-shot, a twilight interview . 



L 



CORRESPONDENCE. 501 

and pouring the song on my glowing fancy. In the first place, 
since I left Coila's native haunts, not a fragment of a poet has risen 
to cheer her solitary musings, by catching inspiration from her ; so 
I more than suspect that she has followed me hither, or at least, 
makes me occasional visits ; secondly, the last stanza of this song I 
send you in the very words that Coila taught me many years ago, 
and which I set to an old Scots reel in Johnson's Museum. 
Air.— " Cauld Kail." 

Gome let me take thee to my breast, 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; 
And I shall spurn, as vilest dust, 

The warld's wealth and grandeur : 
And do I hear my Jeanie own 

That equal transports move her ? 
I ask for dearest life alone, 

That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure ; 
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever ! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never. 

If you think the above will suit your idea of your favourite air, I 
shall be highly pleased. The last time I came o'er the Muir, I can- 
not meddle with, as to mending it : and the musical world have 
been so long accustomed to Ramsay's words, that a different song, 
though positively superior, would not be so well received. I am 
not fond of choruses to songs, so I have not made one for the fore- 
going. 

No. XXXYII. 
ME. BURNS to MR, THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
DAINTY DAYIE. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; 
And now comes in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe 

Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 
There 111 spend the day wi' you, 

My ain dear dainty Davie. 

The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi' my Davie, 
Meet me, &c 



502 BURNS' WORKS* 

When purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then thro' the dews I will repair, 
To meet my faithfu' Davie, 
Meet me, &c. 

When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest* 
I flee to his arms I loe best, 
And that's my ain dear Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe, 

Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, 
There I'll spend the day wi 1 you, 

My ain dear dainty Davie.* 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you know, is to the low part of 
the tune. See Clarke's set of it in the Museum. 

N. B. In the Museum they have drawled out the tune to twelve 
lines of poetry, which is — — nonsense. Four lines of song, and 
four of chorus, is the way. 

No. XXXVIIL 
MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

My Dear Sir, Edinburgh, 1st Sept 1793. 

Since writing you last, I have received half a dozen songs, with 
which I am delighted beyond expression. The humour and fancy 
of Whistle and I'll come to you my lad, will render it nearly as great 
a favourite as Duncan Gray. Come let me take thee to my breast, 
Adown winding Niih, and By Allan stream, &c. are full of imagina- 
tion and feeling, and sweetly suit the airs for which they are in- 
tended. Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, is a striking and 
affecting composition. Our friend, to whose story it refers, read it 
with a swelling heart, I assure you. The union we are now form- 
ing, I think can never be broken ; these songs of yours will descend 
with the music to the latest posterity, and will be fondly cherished 
so long as genius, taste, and sensibility exist in our island. 

While the muse seems so propitious, I think it right to inclose a 
list of all the favours 1 have to ask of her, no fewer than twenty 
and three ! I have burdened the pleasant Peter with as many as it 
is probable he will attend to : most of the remaining airs would 
puzzle the English poet not a little ; they are of that peculiar mea- 
sure and rhythm, that they must be familiar to him who writes for 
them. 



No. XXXIX. 
MR. BURNS to MR, THOMSON. 

September 1793. 
You may readily trust, my dear sir, that any exertion in my power 
is heartily at your service. But one thing I must hint to you ; the 

♦ Dainty Davie is the title of an old Scotch song, from which Burns has taken 
nothing but the title and the measure. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 503 

very name of Peter Pindar is of great service to your publication, 
so get a verse from him now and then ; though I have no objection, 
as well as I can, to bear the burden of the business. 

You know that my pretensions to musical taste, are merely a few 
of nature's instincts, untaught and untutored by art. For this rea- 
son, many musical compositions, particularly where much of the 
merit lies in counterpoint; however they may transport and ravish 
the ears of the connoisseurs, affect my simple lug no otherwise than 
merely as melodious din. On the other hand, by way of amends, I 
am delighted with many little melodies, which the learned musician 
despises as silly or insipid, 1 do not know whether the old air Bey 
tuttie taittie may rank among this number ; but well I know that, 
with Fraser's hautboy, it has oiten filled my eyes with tears. There 
is a tradition, which I have met with in many places in Scotland, 
that it was Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannockburn. — 
This thought, in my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of 
enthusiasm on the theme of Liberty and Independence, which I 
threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air that one might 
suppose to be the Royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on 
that eventful morning.* 



BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS. 

ON THE EVE OF THE BATTLE OP BANNOCKBURN. 

To its own Tune. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victorie. 

Kow's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's power— 
Chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor-knave? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave? 
Wha sae base as be a slave % 
Let him turn and flee. 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw 1 
Free-man stand, or Free-man fa' ! 
Let him follow me I 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Let us do or die ! 

* This noble strain was conceived by ctir poet during a storm among the wilds 
of Glen Kien, in Galloway. A more finished cojy will be found afterwards. 



504 burns' works. 



So may God ever defend the cause of Truth and Liberty, as he 
did that day ! — Amen. 

P. S. — I showed the air to Urbani, who was highly pleased with 
it, and begged me to make soft verses for it ; but I had no idea of 
giving myself any trouble on the subject, till the accidental recol- 
lection of that glorious struggle for freedom, associated with the 
glowing ideas of some other struggles of the same nature, not quite 
so ancient, roused my rhyming mania. Clarke's set of the tune, 
with his bass, you will find in the Museum ; though I am afraid 
that the air is not what will entitle it to a place in your elegant 
selection. 



No. XL. 
ME. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 
I dare say, my dear sir, that you will begin to think my corres- 
pondence is persecution. No matter, I can't help it, a ballad is my 
hobby-horse ; which, though otherwise a simple sort of harmless, 
idiotical beast enough, has yet this blessed headstrong property, 
that when once it has fairly made off with a hapless wight, it gets 
so enamoured with the tinkle-gingle, tinkle-gingle of its own bells, 
that it is sure to run poor pil-garlick, the bedlam jockey, quite be- 
yond any useful point or post in the common race of man. 

Tho following song I have composed for Oran-gaoil, the Highland 
air that you tell me, in your last, you have resolved to give a place 
to in your book. I have this moment finished the song ; so you 
have it glowing from the mint. If it suit you, well ! if not, 'tis 
also well ! 



Tune — " Oran gaoil." 
Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart ; 
Severed from thee can I survive — 

But fate has will'd, and we must part, 
I'll often greet this surging swell, 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
" E'en here, I took the last farewell ; 

" There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." 

Along the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea fowl round me cry, 
Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy's path may be ] 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, 

tell me, does she muse on me ! 

No. XLI. 
MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 5th Sept. 1793. 
I believe it is generally allowed that the greatest modesty is the 
sure attendant of the greatest merit. While you are sending me 



COBRESPONDENCE. 505 

verses that even Shakspeare might be proud to own, you speak of 
them as if they were ordinary productions ! Your heroic ode is to 
me the noblest composition of the kind in the Scottish language. I 
happened to dine yesterday with a party of your friends, to whom 
I read it. They were all charmed with it, entreated me to find out 
a suitable air for it, and reprobated the idea of giving it a tune so 
totally devoid of interest or grandeur as Hey tuttie taitiie. As* 
suredly your partiality for this tune must arise from the ideas as- 
sociated in your mind by the tradition concerning it, for I never 
heard any person, — and I have conversed again and again with the 
greatest enthusiasts for Scottish airs— I say I never heard any one 
speak of it as worthy of notice. 

I have been running over the whole hundred airs, of which I 
lately sent you the list ; and I think Lewie Gordon is most happily 
adapted to your ode ; at least with a very short variation of the 
fourth line, which I shall presently submit to you. There is in 
Lewie Gordon more of the grand than the plaintive, particularly 
when it is sung with a degree of spirit, which your words would 
oblige the singer to give it. I would have no scruple about substitu- 
ting your ode in the room of Leivie Gordon, which has neither the 
interest, the grandeur, nor the poetry that characterise your verses. 
Now the variation I have to suggest upon the last line of each 
verse, the only line too short for the air, is as follows : 
Verse 1st, Or to glorious victorie. 

2d, Chains — chains and slaverie. 

Zd, Let him, let him turn and flie. 

4th, Let him bravely follow me. 

5 th, But they shall, they shall be free. 

6th, Let us, let us do, or die ! 
If you connect each line with its own verse, I do not think you 
will find that either the sentiment or the expression loses any of its 
energy. The only line which I dislike in the whole of the song is, 
" Welcome to your gory bed." Would not another word be prefer- 
able to welcome ? In the next I expect to be informed whether you 
agree to what I have proposed. These little alterations I submit 
with the greatest deference. 

The beauty of the verses you have made for Oran-gaoil will in- 
sure celebrity to the air. 



No. XLII. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON, 

September, 1793. 
I have recived your list, my dear sir, and here go my observations 
on it.* 

Down the Burn Davie. I have this moment tried an alteration, 
leaving out the last half of the third stanza, and the first half of 
the last stanza, thus : 

* Mr. Thomson's list of songs for publication . In his remarks the bard pro- 
ceeds in order, and goes through the whole ; but on many of them he merely sig- 
nifies his approbation. All his remarks of any importance are presented to the 
reader. 



506 BURNS' WORKS. 

As down the burn they took their way, 

And thro* the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 

And love was aye the tale. 

With " Mary, when shall we return, 

Sic pleasure to renew !" 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn, 

And aye shall follow you."* 

Thro 1 the wood, Laddie. — I am decidedly of opinion that both in 
this, and There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame, the second or 
high part of the tune being a repetition of the first part an octave 
higher, is only for instrumental music, and would be much better 
omitted in singing. 

Cowden-Tcnowes, Kemember in your index that the song in pure 
English to this tune, beginning 

" When summer comes, the swains on Tweed," 

is the production of Crawford : Eobert was his Christian name. 

Laddie lie near me, must lie by me for some time. I do not know 
the air ; and until I am complete master of a tune, in my own sing- 
ing, (such as it is,) I never can compose for it. My way is : I con- 
sider the poetic sentiment correspondent to my idea of the musical 
expression ; then choose my theme ; begin one stanza ; when that 
is composed, which is generally the most difficult part of the busi- 
ness, I walk out, sit down now and then, look out for objects in na- 
ture around me, that are in unison or harmony with the cogita- 
tions of my fancy, and workings of my bosom ; humming every 
now and then the air, with the verses I have framed. When I feel 
my music beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary fireside of my 
study, and there commit my effusions to paper ; swinging at inter- 
vals on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my 
own critical strictures, as my pen goes on. Seriously, this at home, 
is almost invariably my way. 

What cursed egotism ! 

Gill Morice I am for leaving out. It is a plaguey length; the air 
itself is never sung : and its place can well be supplied by one or 
two songs for fine airs that are not in your list. For instance, 
Craigieburn-wood and Roy's Wife. The first, beside its intrinsic 
merit, has novelty ; and the last has high merit, as well as great 
celebrity. I have the original words of a song for the last air, in 
the hand writing of the lady who composed it ; and they are supe- 
rior to any edition of the song which the public has yet seen."!" 

Highland laddie. The old set will please a mere Scotch ear best ; 
and the new an Italianized one. There is a third, and what Os- 
wald calls the old Highland laddie, which pleases me more than 
either of them. It is sometimes called Ginglan Johnnie ; it being the 
air of an old humorous tawdry song of that name. You will find 
it in the Museum, I hae been at 'Croohieden, &c, I would advise 
you, in this musical quandary, to offer up your prayers to the muses 
for inspiring direction ; and in the meantime, waiting for this di- 

* This alteration Mr. Thomson has adopted, (or at least intended to adopt,) in- 
stead of the original song, which is objectionable in point of delicacy. 

t This song, so much admired by our bard, will be found in the future part of 
the volume. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 507 

rection, bestow a libation to Bacchus ; and there is not a doubt but 
you will hit on a judicious choice. Probatum est. 

Auld Sir Simon, I must beg you to leave out, and put in its 
place, The Quaker's wife. 

Blythe hae I been o'er the hill is one of the finest songs ever I 
made in my life ; and besides is composed on a young lady, posi- 
tively the most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. As I pur- 
pose giving you the names and designations of all my heroines, to 
appear in some future edition of your works, perhaps half a cen- 
tury hence, you must certainly include the bonnie lass in a 9 the warld 
in your collection. 

Daintie Davie I have heard sung, nineteen thousand, nine hun- 
dred and ninety nine times, and always with the chorus to the low 
part of the tune ; and nothing has surprised me so much as your 
opinion on this subject. If it will not suit, as I proposed, we will 
lay two of the stanzas together, and then make the chorus follow. 

Fee him father — 1 inclose you Fraser's set of this tune when he 
plays it slow; in fact, he makes it the language of despair. I 
shall here give you two stanzas in that style ; merely to try if it 
will be any improvement. Were it possible, in singing, to give it 
half the pathos which Fraser gives it in playing, it would make an 
admirable pathetic song. I do not give these verses for any merit 
they have. I composed them at the time in which Patie Allan's 
mither died, that was about the back o' midnight; and by the leeside 
of a bowl of punch, which had overset every mortal in company, 
except the hautbois and the muse. 



Thou ha3t left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever, 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death, Only should us sever, 
Now thou's left thy lass for aye— I maun see thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never.* 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken. 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken, 
Thou canst love anither jo, While my heart is breaking : 
Soon my weary e'en I'll close — Never mair to waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken, f 

Jocky and Jenny I would discard, and in its place would put 
There's nae luck about the house, which has a very pleasant air ; and 
which is positively the finest love-ballad in that style in the Scot- 
tish, or perhaps in any other language. When she cam ben she bob' 
bet, as an air, is more beautiful than either, and in the andante 
way, would unite with a charming sentimental ballad. 

" Saw ye my father," is one of my greatest favourites. The evening 
before last, I wandered out and began a tender song : in what I 
think is its native style. 1 must premise that the old way, and the 
way to give most effect, is to have no starting note, as the fiddlers 

* The Scottish (the Editor U3es the word substantively, as the English) em- 
ploy the abbreviation I'll, for I shall, as well as I will ; and it is for I shall, it is 
used here. In Annandale, as in the northern counties of England, for I shall, 
they use I'se. 

T This is the whole of the song. The bard never proceeded farther —Note by 
Mr. Thomson, 



508 BURNS' WORKS. 

call it, but to burst at once into the pathos. Every country girl 
sings—" Saw ye my father," &c. 

My song is but just begun ; and I should like, before I proceed, 
to know your opinion of it. I have sprinkled it with the Scottish 
dialect, but it may be easily turned into correct English. 

FRAGMENT. 
Tune — " Saw ye my Father." 

Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, 

That danc'd to the larks early sang ] 
Where is the peace that awaited my wandering, 

At e'enin' the wild woods amang ? 

Kae mair a- winding the course o* yon river, 

And marking sweet flow'rets sae fair ; 
Kae mair I trace the light footsteps o' pleasure, 

But sorrow and sad sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim surly winter is near ] 
No, no : the bees humming round the gay roses 

Proclaim it the pride o' the year. 

Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover, 

Yet lang, lang too well hae I known ; 
A' that has caused the wreck in my bosom, 

Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

CETERA DESUNT. 

" To&lirC hdme* Urbani mentioned an idea of his, which has 
long been mine ; that this air is highly susceptible of pathos : ac- 
cordingly, you will soon hear him, at your concert, try it to a song 
of mine in the Museum, " Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon." — 
One song more and I have done. " Auld lang syne." The air is 
but " mediocre," but the following song, the old song of the olden 
times, and which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, 
until 1 took it down from an old man's singing, is enough to re- 
commend any air. 

AULD LANG SYNF. 

Should auld acquaintance be forget, 

And never brought to miiJl 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And days o' lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae run about the braes, 

And pou't the go wans fine; 
But we've wandered many a weary foot 

Sin auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 






CORRESPONDENCE. 509 

We twa hae paidelt i' the burn, 

Fra mornin' sun till dine : 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd 

Sin auld lang syne. 

For auld, &o. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak' a right guid willie-waughfe, 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll be mine ! 
And well tak' a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne.* 

For auld, &c. 



Now, I suppose I have tired your patience fairly. You must, 
after all is over, have a number of ballads, properly so called. ' Gill 
Morice, Tranent Muir, M'Pherson's Farewell, Battle of Sheriff- 
muir,' or ' We ran and they ran, (I know the author of this charm- 
ing ballad, and his history,) Hardiknute, Barbara Allan/ (I can 
furnish a finer set of this tune than any that has yet appeared,) and 
besides, do you know that I redlly have the old tune to which 
* The Cherry and the Slae' was sung ; and which is mentioned as a 
well known air in Scotland's complaint, a book published before 
poor Mary's days. It was then called ' The banks o' Helicon ;' an 
old poem which Ptnkerton has brought to light. You will see all 
this in Ty tier's History of Scottish Music. The tune to a learned 
ear, may have no great merit ; but it is a great curiosity. I have 
a good many original things of this kind. 



No. XLIIL 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 
I Am happy, my dear sir, that my ode pleases you so much. Your 
idea, " honour's bed," is, though a beautiful, hackneyed idea: so, 
if you please, we will let the line stand as it is. I have altered the 
song as follows : — 

BANNOCI^BURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE's ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled ; 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victory. 

Now's the day and now's the hour; 
See the front of battle lour : 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Edward ! chains and slavery ! 

* This song of the olden times is excellent— It is worthy of our bard. 



510 BURNS' WORKS. 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave 1 
Wha sae base as be a slave 1 
Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw ! 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa', 
Caladonian ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins. 
But they shall be — shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 

Tyrants fall in every foe ! 

Liberty's in every blow ! 

Forward ! let us do, or die ! 
• • • • • 

K.B.—I have borrowed the last stanza from the common stall 
edition of Wallace. 

" A false usurper sinks in every foe, 
And liberty returns with every blow." 

A couplet worthy of Horace. Yesterday you had enough of my 
correspondence. The post goes, and my head aches miserably. 
One comfort ; I suffer so much, just now, in this world, for the last 
night's jo vality, that I shall escape seot-free for it in the world to 
come. Amen ! 



MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

12th Sept. 1793. 

A thousand thanks to you, my dear sir, for your observations on 
the list of my songs. I am happy to find yor ideas so much in 
unison with my own respecting the generality of the airs, as well as 
the verses. About them we differ, but there is no disputing about 
hobby-horses. 1 shall not fail to profit by the remarks you made 
and to re- consider the whole with attention. 

" Daintie Davie" must be sung two stanzas together, and then the 
chorus — 'tis the proper way. 1 agree with you, that there may be 
fomething of pathos, or tenderness at least, in the air of " Fee him, 
Father," when performed with feeling : but a tender cast may be 
given almost to any lively air, if you sing it very slowly, expressive- 
ly, and with serious words. I am, however, clearly, and invariably 
for retaining the cheerful tunes joined to their own humourous 
ver3es, wherever the verses are passable. But the sweet song for 
" Fee him. Father," which you began about the back of mid- 
night, I will publish as an additional one. Mr. James Balfour, the 
king of good fellows, and the best singer of the lively Scottish 
ballads that ever existed, has charmed thousands of companies with 
" Fee him, father/ and with " Todlinhame" also, to the old words, 
which should be disunited from either of these airs. Some Bac- 
chanalians I would wish to discard. " Fy let us a' to the bridal," 
for instance is so coarse and vulgar, that I think it fit only to be 



CORRESPONDENCE. 511 

sung in a company of drunken colliers ; and " Saw ye my father** 
appears to me both indelicate and silly. 

One word more with regard to your heroic ode. I think, with 
great deference to the poet, that a prudent general would avoid 
saying any thing to his soldiers which might tend to make death 
more frightful than it is. Gory, presents a disagreeable image to 
the mind ; and to tell them, " Welcome to your gory bed," seems 
rather a discouraging address, notwithstanding the alternative 
which follows. X have shown the song to three friends of excel- 
lent taste, and each of them objected to this line, which emboldens 
me to use the freedom of bringing it again under your notice. I 
would suggest, 

" Now prepare for honour's bed, 
?• Qr for glorious victor ie." 



No. XLY. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

" Who will decide when doctors disagree \" My ode pleases me so 
much that I cannot alter it. Your proposed alterations would, in 
my opinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly obliged to you for 
putting me on reconsidering it ; I think I have much improved 
it. Instead of " sodger ! hero 1" I will have " Caledonia ! on 
wi' me !" 

I have scrutinized it over and over ; and to the world some way 
or other it shall go as it is. At the same time it will not in the 
least hurt me, should you leave it out altogether and adhere to 
your first intention of adopting Logan's verses.* 

* Mr. Thomson has very properly adopted this song (if it may be so called) as 
the bard presented it to him. He has attached to it the air of "Lewis Gordon," and 
perhaps among the existing airs he could not find a better ; but the poetry is 
suited to a much higher strain of music, and may employ the genius of some 
Scottish Handel, if any such should in future arise. The reader will have ob- 
served, that Burns adopted the alteration proposed by his friend and correspondent 
in former instances with great readiness ; perhaps, indeed, on all indifferent occa~ 
sions. In the present instance, however, he rejected them, though repeatedly 
urged, with determined resolution. With every respect for the judgment of Mr. 
Thomson and his friends, we may be satisfied that he did so. He who in prepar- 
ing for an engagement attempts to withdraw his imagination from images of death 
will probably have but imperfect success, and is not fitted to stand in the ranks of 
battle, where the liberties of a kingdom are at issue. Of such men the conquerors 
of Bannockburn were not composed. Bruce's troops were inured to war, and fa- 
miliar with all its sufferings and dangers. On the eve of that memorable day, 
their spirits were without doubt wound up to the pitch of enthusiasm suited to the 
occasion ; a pitch of enthusiasm at which danger becomes attractive, and the most 
terrific forms of death are no longer terrible. Such a strain of sentiment this he- 
roic " welcome" may be supposed well calculated to elevate— to raise their hearts 
high above fear, and to nerve their arms to the utmost pitch of mortal exertion. 
These observations might be illustrated and supported, by a reference to the mar- 
tial poetry of all nations, from the spirit-stirring strains of Tyrteus, to the war- 
song of General Wolfe. Mr. Thomson's observations, that " Welcome to your 
gory bed," is a discouraging address seems not sufficiently considered. Perhaps, 
indeed, it may be admitted, that the term gory is somewhat objectionable, not 
on account of its presenting a frightful but a disagreeable image to the mind. But 
a great poet uttering his conceptions on an interesting occasion, seeks always to 
present a picture that is vivid, and is uniformly disposed to sacrifice, the delica* 
cies of taste on the altar of the imagination, 



512 BURNS' WORKS. 

I have finished my song to " Saw ye my father f and in English, 
as you will see. That there is a syllable too much for the e'xpres* 
sion of the air, it i3 true ; but allow me to say, that the mere divid- 
ing of a dotted crotchet into a crotchet and a quaver, k not a great 
matter : however, in that, I have no pretension to cope in judgment 
with you. Of the poetry I speak with confidence ; but the music 
is a business where I hint my ideas with modest diffidence. 

The old verses have merit, though unequal, and are popular ; my 
advice is to set the air to the old words, and let mine follow as Eng- 
lish verses. 

FAIK JENNY. 

Tune—" Saw ye my Father." 

Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, 

That danc'd to the lark's early sang ! 
Where is the peace that awaited my wandering, 

At evening the wild woods among 1 

No more a winding the course of yon river, 

And marking sweet flow'rets so fair ; 
No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 

But sorrow and sad-sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim surly winter is near ? 
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses, 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, 
Yet long, long too well have I known : 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 

Nor Hope dare a comfort bestow : 
Come then, enamour' d and fond of my anguish, 

Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 

Adieu, my dear sir ! The post goes, so I shall defer some other 
remarks until more leisure. 



No. XLYI. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

I have been turning over some volumes of songs, to find verses 
whose measures would suit the airs for which you have allotted me 
to find English songs. 

For Muirland Willie you have, in Ramsay's Tea-table, an excel- 
lent song beginning "Ah, those tears in Nelly's eyes] 1 ' As for 
94 The Collier's Dochter," take the following old Bacchanal. 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 

The fickle fair can give thee, 
Is but a fairy treasure, 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 513 

The billows on the ocean, 

The breezes idly roaming. 
The cloud's uncertain motion, 

They are but types of women. 
O ! art thou not ashamed, 

To doat upon a feature ? 
If man thou wouldest be named, 

Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow ; 

Good claret set before thee 
Hold on till thou art mellow, 

And then to bed in glory. 

The faulty line in Logan- water, I mend thus : 
u How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
11 The widow's tear, the orphan s cry V 

The song, otherwise, will pass. As to M'Gregoira Rua-Ruth, you 
will see a song of mine to it, with a set of the air superior to yours, 
in the Museum, Yol. ii. p. 181. The song begins, 
* " Raving winds around her blowing." 

Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are downright Irish. If they 
were like the Banks of Banna, for instance, though really Irish, yet 
in the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since you are so 
fond of Irish mus^c, what say you to twenty-five of them in an ad- 
ditional number : We could easily find this quantity of charming 
airs ; I will take care that you shall not want songs ; and I assure 
you that you would find it the most saleable of the whole. If you 
do not approve of Roys Wife, for the music sake, we shall not in- 
sert it. Deil talc the wars; is a charming song ; so is Saw ye my Peggy. 
There s nae luck about the house, well deserves a place ; 1 cannot say 
that O'er the hills and far aiva strikes me as equal to your selection. 
This is no my ain house is a great favourite air of mine ; and if you 
will send me your set of it, I will task my muse to her highest ef- 
fort. What is your opinion of i" hae laid a herring in sawt % I like 
it much. Your Jacobite airs are pretty ; and there are many others 
of the same kind pretty— but you have not room for them. You 
cannot, 1 think, insert Fye let us a" to the bridal to any other words 
than its own. 

What pleases me, as simple and naive, disgusts you a3 ludicrous 
and low. For this reason, Fye, gie me my coggie sirs — Fye let us 
a 1 to the bridal, with several others of that cast, are to me, highly 
pleasing ; while, Saio ye my Mother, delights me with its descriptive 
simple pathos. Thus, my song, Ken ye what Meg o' the mill has got- 
ten? pleases myself so much, that I cannot try my hand at another 
song to the air ; so I shall not attempt it. 1 know you will langh at 
all this; but, "ilka man wears his belt his ain gait." 



No. XLVII. 
MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

October, 1793. 
Your last letter, n:y dear Thomson, wa- indeed laden with heavy 

* This will be fouad in tht latter d ut c f this volun.e. 

y 5 



514 burns' works. 

news. Alas, poor Erskine !* The recollection that he was a coad- 
jutor in your publication, has, till now, scared me from writing to 
you, or turning my thoughts on composing for you. 

1 am pleased that you are reconciled to the air of the Quaker's 
Wife, though, by the bye, an old Highland gentleman, and a deep an- 
tiquarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by the name of 
Leigher 'm choss. The following verses I hope will please you, as an 
English song to the air. 

Think am I, my faithful fair, 

Thine, my lovely Nancy : 
Ev*ry pulse along my veins, 

Ev'ry roving fancy 

To thy bosom lay my heart, 

There to throb and languish ; 
Tho' despair had wrung its core, 

That would heal its anguish. 

Take away these rosy lips, 

Rich with balmy treasure : 
Turn away thine eyes of love, 

Lest I die with pleasure. 

What is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning : 
Love's the cloudless summer sun, 

Nature gay adorning. 

* * * % * * 

Your objection to the English song I proposed for John Anderson 
my jo, is certainly just. The following is by an old acquaintance 
of mine, and I think has merit. The song was never in print, 
which I think is so much in your favour. The more original good 
poetry your collection contains, it certainly has so much the more 
merit. 

SONG, 

BY GAVIN TURNBULL. 

condescend, dear, charming maid, 
My wretched state to view; 

A tender swain to love betray'd, 
And sad despair, by you. 

While here, all melancholy, 

My passion 1 deplore, 
Yet, urg'd by stern resistless fate, 

I love thee more and more. 

1 heard of love, and with disdain, 

The urchin's power denied ; 
I laugh'd at every lover's pain, 
And mock'd them when they sigh'd : 

But how my state is altered ! 
Those happy days are o'er ; 

« The Honourable A. Eskine, brother to Lord Kelly, vrhose melancholy death 
Mr. Thomson had communicated in an excellent letter, which he has suppressed. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 515 

For all thy unrelenting hate, 
I love thee more and more. 

O yield, illustrious beauty, yield, 

No longer let me mourn ; 
And tho' victorious in the field, 

Thy captive do not scorn. 

Let generous pity warm thee, 

My wonted peace restore; 
And grateful, I shall bless thee still, 

And love thee more and more. 

* * * * * * * 

The following address of Turnbull to the nightingale will suit, as 
an English song, to the air There was a lass and she teas fair, — By 
the bye, Turnbull has a great many songs in MS. which 1 can com- 
mand, if you like his manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of 
mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour ; but I like some of his 
pieces very much. 

ite • fife . •' ate Ale 2S& " " £fe afe 

7y» »pf 7p» 7F 'TfC 7pT ?f» 

THE NIGHTINGALE. 

BY G. TURNBULL. 

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove, 

That ever tried the plaintive strain, 
Awake thy tender tale of love, 

And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 

For tho' the muses deign to aid, 

And teach him smoothly to complain ; 

Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid, 
Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 

All day, with Fashion's gaudy sons, 

In sport she wanders o'er the plain ; 
Their tales approves, and still she shuns 

The notes of her forsaken swain. 
When evening shades obscure the sky, 

And bring the solemn hour3 again, 
Begin, sweet bird, thy melody, 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 
******* 
I shall just transcribe another of TurnbuH's, which would go 
charmingly to Leivie Gordon, 

LAURA, 

BY Q, TURNBULL. 

Let me wander where I will, 
By shady wood, or winding rill ; 
Where the sweetest May-born flowers 
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers ; 
Where the linnet's early song 
Echoes sweet the woods among ; 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 



516 Burns' works. 

If at rosy dawn I choose 
To indulge the smiling muse, 
If I court some cool retreat, 
To avoid the noon-tide heat ; 
If beneath the moon's pale ray, 
Thro* unfrequented wilds I stray : 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 

When at night the drowsy god 
Waves his sleep- compelling rod, 
And to Fancy's wakeful eyes 
Bids celestial visions rise ; 
While with boundless joy I rove 
Thro' the fairy land of love : 
Let me wander where I will, 
* Laura haunts my fancy still. 
* ***** * 

The rest of your letter I shall answer at some other opportunity. 

MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

Mr dear sib, 7 th Nov. 1793. 

After so long a silence, it gave me a peculiar pleasure to recog- 
nise your well-known hand, for I had begun to be apprehensive 
that all was not well with you. I am happy to find, however, that 
your silence did not proceed from that cause, and that you have 
got among the ballads once more. 

I have to thank you for your English song to Leiger m' choss, 
which I think extremely good, although the colouring is warm. 
Your friend Mr. Turn bull's songs have doubtless considerable merit : 
and as you have the command of his manuscripts, I hope you may 
find out some that will answer as English songs to the airs yet un- 
provided. 

No. XLIX. 
MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

December 1793. 
Tell me how you like the following verses to the tune of Jo Janet, 

Husband, husband cease your strife, 

Nor longer idly rave, sir ; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife, 

Yet 1 am not your slave, sir. 

" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy, 
Is it man or woman, say, 

My spouse Nancy f 

If 'tis stiil the lordly word, 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sovereign lord, 

And so good bye allegiance ! 



CORRESPONDENCE. 517 

" Sad will I be so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy : 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse Nancy." 

My poor heart then break it must, 

My last hour I'm near it : 
When you lay me in the dust, 

Think, think how you will bear it. 

" I will hope and trust in heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

My spouse Nancy." 

Well, sir, from the silent dead, 

Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 

" I'll wed another like my dear, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear, 
My spouse, Nancy." 

Air— "The Sutor's Dochter." 
Wilt thou be my dearie : 
When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 
Wilt thou let me cheer thee ,• 
By the treasure of my soul, 
That's the love I bear thee ! 
I swear and vow that only thou 
Shall ever be my dearie. 
Only thou, 1 swear and vow 
Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou loe's me ! 
Or if thou wilt na be my ain, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 
If it winna, canna be, 
Thou for thine may choose me, 
Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me ; 
Lassie let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



No L. 

MR. THOMSON to ME. BURNS. 

Mi Dear Sir, Edinburgh 7 th April, 1794. 

Owing to the distress of our friend for the loss of his child, at the 
time of his receiving your admirable but melancholy letter, I had 
not an opportunity 'till lately of perusing it. * How sorry am I 
to find Barns saying, " Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased 1" 
while he is delighting others from one end of the island to the 

* A letter to Mt. Cunningham, to be found in p. 297. 



518 BURNS* WORKS. 

other. Like the hypochondriac who went to consult a physician 
upon his case : Go, says the doctor, and see the famous Carlini, who 
keeps all Paris in good humour. Alas ! sir, replied the patient, I 
am that unhappy Carlini I 

Your plan for our meeting together pleases me greatly, and I 
trust that by some means or other it will soon take place ; but your 
Bacchanalian challenge almost frightens me, for I am a miserable 
weak drinker ! 

Allan is much gratified by the good opinion of his talents. He 
has just begun a sketch from your Cotter* s Saturday Night, and if it 
pleases himself in the design, he will probably etch or engrave it. — 
In subjects of the pastoral or humorous kind, he is perhaps unri- 
valled by any artist living. He fails a little in giving beauty and 
grace to his females, and his colouring is sombre, otherwise his paint- 
ings and drawings would be in greater request. 

I like the music of the Sutors Dodder, and will consider whether it 
shall be added to the last volume ; your verses to it are pretty ; but 
your humorous English to suit Jo Janet is inimitable. What think you 
of the air, Within a mile of Edinburgh I It has always struck me 
as a modern English imitation ; but is said to be Oswald's, and is so 
much liked, that I believe I must include it. The verses are little 
better than "namby pamby." Do you consider it worth a stanza 
or two 1 



No. LI. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

My Dear Sir, May, 1794. 

I return you the plates, with which I am highly pleased; I would 
humbly propose, instead of the younker knitting stockings, to put 
a stock and horn into his hands. A friend of mine, who is posi- 
tively the ablest judge on the subject I have ever met with, and 
though an unknown, is yet a superior artist with the Burin, is 
quite charmed with Allan's manner : I got him a peep of the Gentle 
Shepherd, and he pronounces Allan a most original artist of great 
excellence. 

For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's choosing my favourite poem 
for his subject, to be one of the highest compliments I have ever 
received. 

I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up in France, as it will 
put an entire stop to our work. Now, and for six or seven months, 
u I shall be quite in song," as you shall see by and bye. I got an 
air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, 
which she calls The Banks of Cree. Cree is a beautiful romantic 
stream ; and as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have 
written the following song to it. 

BANKS OF CREE. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower, 
All underneath the birchen shade ; 

The village bell has told the hour, — 
what can stay my lovely maid. 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 
'Tis but the balmy breathing gale, 



CORRESPONDENCE. 519 

Mixt with some warbler's dying fall, 
The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove, 
His little faithful mate to cheer ; 

At once 'tis music — and 'tis love. 

And art thou come ! and art thou true ! 

O welcome dear to love and me ! 
And let us all our vows renew, 

Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



No. LII. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

July, 1794. 
Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your work to be at a dead stop 
until the allies set our modern Orpheus at liberty from the savage 
thraldom of democratic discords. Alas, the day ! And woe's me ! 
That auspicious period, pregnant with the happiness of mil- 
lions.* 

I have presented a copy of your songs to the daughter of a much- 
valued and much honoured friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintry. 
I wrote, on the blank side of a title-page, the following address to 
the young lady. 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Accept the gift, though humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of a grateful mind. 

So may no ruffianf feeling in thy breast, 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears, 
As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



No. LIII. 

MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

My Dear Sir, Edinburgh, \tith Aug., 17&4. 

I owe an apology for having so long delayed to acknowledge the 
favour of your last. I fear it will be as you say. 1 shall have no 
more songs from Pleyel till France and we are friends ; but, never- 
theless, I am very desirous to be prepared with the poetry, and as 
the season approaches in which your muse of Coil a visits you, I 
trust I shall, as formerly, be frequently gratified with the result of 
your amorous and tender interviews ! 

* A portion of this letter has been left out, 'for reasons that can easily be ima- 
gined. 

+ It were to have been wished that instead of ruffian feeling, the bard had 
used a less rugged epithet, e. g. ruder, 



520 burns' works. 

No. LIV. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

ZOth August 179L 

The last evening, as I was straying out and thinking of "O'er the 
hills and far awa," I spun the following stanza for it ; but whether 
my spinning will de serve to be laid up in store like the precious 
thread of the silk-worm, or brushed to the devil like the vile manu- 
factures of the spider, I leave, my dear sir, to your usual candid 
criticism. I was pleased with several lines in it at first : but I 
own, that now, it appears rather a flimsy business. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whether it be worth a 
critique. We have many sailor songs ; but, os far as I at present 
recollect, they are mostly the effusions of the jovial sailor, not the 
wailings of his lovelorn mistress. I must here make one sweet ex- 
ception — " Sweet Annie frae the Sea beach came." Now for the 
song. 

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

How can my poor heart be glad, 
When absent from my sailor lad 1 
How can I the thoughts forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe?- 
Let me wander, let me rove, 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away. 

CHORUS. 

On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away ; 
Nightly thoughts and dreams by day 
Are aye with him that's far away. 

When in summer's noon I faint, 
As weary flocks around me pant, 
Haply in this scorching sun 
My sailor's thundering at his gun : 
Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 
Fate do with me what you may, 
Spare but him that's far away ! 
On the seas, &c. 

At the starless midnight hour, 
When winter rules with boundless power ; 
As the storms the forest tear, 
And thunders rend the howling air, 
Listening to the doubling roar, 
Surging on the rocky shore, 
All I can — I weep and pray, 
For his weal that's faraway, 
Oa the seas, kc. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend, 
And bid wild war his ravage end : 



CORRESPONBENCE. 521 

Man with brother man to meet, 
And as a brother kindly greet : 
Then may heaven, with prosp'rous gales, 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails, 
To my arms their charge convey, 
My dear lad that's far away, 
On the seas, &c. 



I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it in the spirit of 
Christian meekness. 

No. LY. 

MK. THOMSON to ME. BURNS. 

Mr Dear Sir, Edinburgh, 16th Sept. 1794. 

You have anticipated my opinion of " On the seas and far away » *■ 
do not think it one of your very happy productions, though it ce3> 
tainly contains stanzas that are worthy of all acceptation. 

The second is the least to my liking, particularly, "Bullets, 
spare my only joy." Confound the bullets. It might perhaps be 
objected to the third verse, " At the starless midnight hour," that 
it has too much grandeur of imagery, and that greater simplicity 
of thought would have better suited the character of a sailor's 
sweetheart. The tune, it must be remembered, is of the brisk, 
cheerful kind. Upon the whole, therefore, in my humble opinion, 
the song would be better adapted to the tune, if it consisted only of 
the first and last verses, with the choruses. 



No. LYI. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1794. 

I shall withdraw my " On the seas and far away" altogether ; it is 
unequal, and unworthy of the work. Making a poem is like be- 
getting a son ; you cannot know whether you have a wise man or a 
fool, until you produce him to the world and try him. 

For that reason I send you the offspring of my brain, abortions 
and all ; and as such, pray look over them and forgive them, and 
burn them.* I am flattered at your adopting " Ca' the yewes to 
the knowes," as it was owing to me that it ever saw the light. 
About seven years ago I was well acquainted with a worthy little 
fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunzie, who sung it charmingly ; and, 
at my request, Mr. Clarke took it down from his singing. When I 
gave it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the song, and mended 
others, but still it will not do for you. In a solitary stroll which I 
took to-day, I tried my hand on a few pastoral lines, following up 
the idea of the chorus, which I would preserve. Here it is, with 
all its crudities and imperfections on its head. 

* Thi8 Virgilian order of the poet, should, I think, he disobeyed with respect to 
the song in question, the second stanza excepted — Note by Mr Thompson. 
Doctors differ. The objection to the second stanza does not strike the Editor. 



522 burns' works. 

CHORUS. 

Ca' the yewes to the knowes, 
Ca' them whare the heather grows, 
Ca' them whare the burnie rows, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Hark the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang*h 
Than afaulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side, 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves, that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 
Ca' the, &c. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 
Ca' the, &c. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Noeht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

I shall give you my opinion of your other newly adopted songs, 
my first scribbling fit. 



No. LTII. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMPSON. 

September, 1794. 

Do you know a blackguard Irish song, called OnagKs Waterfall I 
The air is charming, and I have often regretted the want of decent 
verses to it. It is too much, at least for my humble rustic muse, 
to expect that every effort of hers shall have merit ; still 1 think it 
is better to have mediocre verses to a favourite air, than none at 
all. On this principle I have all along proceeded in the Scots Mu- 
sical Museum, and as that publication is at its last volume, I in- 
tend the following song, to the air above mentioned, for that work. 
If it does not suit you as an editor, you may be pleased to have 
verses to it that you can sing before ladies. 

t The river Clouden, a tributary stream to the Nith, 



CORRESPONDENCE, 623 

SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A\ 

11 Onagh's Water- Fall." 

Sab flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er arching 

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. 
Her smiling sae wyling, 

Wad make a wretch forget his woe ; 
What pleasure, what treasure, 

Unto these rosy lips to grow ; 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 

When first her bonnie face I saw, 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'e3 me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion : 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion, 

Wad make a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and graceful air ; 
Ilk feature — auld Nature 

Declar'd that she could do na mair : 
Hers are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gie me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon. 
Fair beaming and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang. 
There dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and Jeafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

And say thou lo'es me best of a\ 



Not to compare small things with great, my taste in music is like 
the mighty Frederick of Prussia's taste in painting : we are told 
that he frequently admired what the connoisseurs decried, and 
always without any hypocrisy confessed his admiration. I am sensi- 
ble that my taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar, because 
people of undisputed and cultivated taste can find no merit in my 
favourite tunes. Still, because I am cheaply pleased, is that any 
reason why I should deny myself that pleasure] Many of our 
strathspeys, ancient and modern, give me the most exquisite en- 
joyment, where you and other judges would probably be showing 
disgust. For instance, I am just now making verses for "Rothie- 
murche's Rant," an air which put me in raptures ; and in fact, un- 
less I be pleased with the tune, I never can make verses to it, Here 






524 burns' works. 

I have Clark on my side, who is a judge that I will pit against any 
of you. u Eothieniurche," he says, " is in the air both original and 
beautiful f and on his recommendation I have taken the first part 
of the tune for a chorus, and the fourth or last part for the soDg. I 
am but two stanzas deep in the work, and possibly you may think, 
and justly, that the poetry is as little worth your attention as the 
music* 

I have begun, anew, " Let me in this ae night." Do you think 
that we ought to retain the old chorus 1 I think we must retain 
both the old chorus and the first stanza of the old song. I do not 
altogether like the third line of the first stanza, but cannot alter it 
to please myself. I am just three stanzas deep in it. Would you 
have the "denouement" to be successful or otherwise ; — should she 
" let him in'' or not. 

Did you not once propose " The Sow's tail to Geordie," as an air 
for your work ; I am quite delighted with it ; but I acknowledge 
that is no mark of its real excellence. I once set about verses for 
it, which I meant to be in the alternate way of a lover and his mis- 
tress chanting together. I have not the pleasure of knowing Mrs. 
Thomson's Christian name, and yours, I am afraid is rather bur- 
lesque for sentiment, else I had meant to have made you the hero 
and heroine of the little piece. 

How do you like the following epigram, which I wrote the other 
day on a lovely young girl's recovery from a fever ] Doctor Max- 
well was the physician who seemingly saved her from the grave, 
and to him I address the following : 

TO DE. MAXWELL, 

ON MISS JESSY STAIG'S RECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 

That merit I deny : 
You save fair Jessy from the grave ! 

-An angel could not die ! 

God grant you patience with this stupid epistle ! 



No. LTIII. 

MR. THOMSON to ME. BURNS. 

I perceive the sprightly muse is now attendant upon her favourite 
poet, whose "wood- notes wild" are become as enchanting as ever. 
" She says she lo'es me best of a'/' is one of the pleasantest table- 
songs I have seen ; and henceforth shall be mine when the song is 
going round. I'll give Cunningham a copy, he can. more power- 
fully proclaim your merit. I am far from undervaluing your taste 
for the strathspey music ; on the contrary, I think it highly ani- 
mating and agreeable, and that some of the strathspeys, when 
graced with such verses as yours, will make very pleasing songs, in 
the same way that rough Christians are tempered and softened by 
lovely woman, without whom, you know, they had been brutes. 

I am clear for having the Sow's tail, particularly as vour pro- 
posed verses to it are so extremely promising. Geordie, as you ob- 

* In the original follow here two stanzas of a song, beginning, " Lassie wi' the 
lint-white locks ;" -which will be found at full length afterwards. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 

serve, is a name only fit for burlesque composition, Mrs. Thom- 
son's name (Katharine) is not at all poetical. Retain Jeanie, there- 
fore, and make the other Jamie, or any other that sounds agree- 
ably. 

Your CcC ike yewes, is a precious little morceau. Indeed I am 
perfectly astonished and charmed with the endless variety of your 
fancy. Here let me ask you, whether you never seriously turned 
your thoughs upon dramatic writing. That is a field worthy of 
your genius, in which it might shine forth in all its splendour. 
One or two successful pieces upon the London stage would make 
your fortune. The rage at present is for musical dramas ; few or 
none of those which have appeared since the Duenna, possesses 
much poetical merit : there i3 little in the conduct of the fable, or 
in the dialogue, to interest the audience. They are chiefly vehicles 
for music and pageantry. I think you might produce a comic opera 
in three acts, which would live by the poetry, at the same time 
that it would be proper to take every assistance from her tuneful 
sister. Part of the songs of course would be to our favourite Scot- 
tish airs; the rest might be left with the London composer — Storace 
for Drury Lane, or Shield for Covent garden; both of them very 
able and popular musicians. I believe that interest and manoeuvr- 
ing are often necessary to have a drama brought on : so it may be 
with the namby pamby tribe of flowery scribblers ; but were you 
to address Mr. Sheridan himself by letter, and send him a dramatic 
piece, I am persuaded he would, for the honour of genius, give it a 
fair and candid trial. Excuse me for obtruding these hints upon 
your consideration.* 



Ho. LIX. 

MR, THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, \ith October, 1794. 

The last eight days have been devoted to the re-examination of the 
Scottish collections. I have read, and sung, and fiddled, and con- 
sidered, till I am half blind and wholly stupid. The few airs I 
have added, are enclosed. 

Peter Pindar has at length sent me all the songs I expected from 
him, which are in general elegant and beautiful. Have you heard 
of a London collection of Scottish airs and songs, just published by 
Mr. Ritson, an Englishman. I shall send you a copy. His intro- 
ductory essay on the subject is curious, and evinces great reading 
and research, but it does not decide the question as to the origin 
of our melodies ; though he shows clearly that Mr. Tytler, in his 
ingenious dissertation, has adduced no sort of proof of the hypothesis 
he wished to establish; and that his classification of the airs, ac- 
cording to the eras when they were composed, is mere faney and 
conjecture. On John Pinkerton, Esq. he has no mercy; but con- 
signs him to damnation ! He snarls at my publication, on the 
score of Pindar being engaged to write songs for it ; uncandidly 
and unjustly leaving it to be inferred, that the Songs of Scottish 
writers had been sent a-packing to make room for Peter's ! Of you 

* Our bard had before received the same advice, and certainly took it 30 far into 
consideration, as to have cast about for a subject. 



526 burns' works. 

he speaks with some respect, but gives you a passing hit or two, for 
daring to dress up a little some old foolish songs for the Museum. 
His sets of the Scottish airs are taken, he says, from the oldest col- 
lections and best authorities : many of them, however, have such a 
strange aspect, and are so unlike the sets which are sung by every 
person of taste, old or young, in town or country, that we can 
scarcely recognise the features of our favourites. By going to the 
oldest collections of our music, it does not follow that we find the 
melodies in their original state. These melodies had been pre- 
served, we know not how long, by oral communication, before be- 
ing collected and printed : and as different persons sang the same 
air very differently, according to their accurate or confused recol- 
lection of it, so even supposing the first collectors to have possessed 
the industry, the taste and discernment to choose the best they 
could hear, (which is far from certain,) still it must evidently be a 
chance, whether the collections exhibit any of the melodies in the 
state they were first composed. In selecting the melodies for my 
own collection, I have been as much guided by the living as by the 
dead. Where these differed, I preferred the sets that appeared to 
me the most simple and beautiful, and the most generally ap- 
proved ; and, without meaning any compliment to my own capa- 
bility of choosing, or speaking of the pains I have taken, I flatter 
myself that my sets will be found equally freed from vulgar errors 
on the one hand, and affected graces on the other. 



No. LX. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

Mr Dear Friend, 19^ October, 1794. 

Bv this morning's post I have your list, and, in general, I highly 
approve of it. I shall, at more leisure, give you a critique on the 
whole. Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, and 1 wish you 
would call on him and take his opinion in general : you know his 
taste is a standard. He will return here again in a week or two, 
so, please do not miss asking for him. One thing I hope he will 
do, persuade you to adopt my favourite, " Craigie-burn wood," in 
your selection : It is as great a favourite of his as of mine. The 
lady on whom it was made is one of the finest women in Scotland : 
and, in fact, (entre nous) is in a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza 
was to him — a mistress, a friend, or what you will, in the guileless 
simplicity of Platonic love. (Now don't put any of your squinting 
constructions on this, or have any clishmaclaiver about it among 
our acquaintances.) I assure you that to my lovely friend you are 
indebted for many of your best songs of mine. Do you think that 
the sober, gin-horse routine of existence, could inspire a man with 
life, and love, and joy — could fire him with enthusiasm or melt 
him with pathos, equal to the genius of your book — No ! no ! — 
Whenever I want to be more than ordinary in song ; to be in 
some degree equal to your diviner airs — do you imagine I 
fast and pray for the divine emanation 1 Tout au contraire I 
I have a glorious recipe ; the very one that for hi3 own use 
was invented by the divinity of healing and poetry, when first 
he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of 



COfc&ESPONDENCE. 527 

admiring a fine Woman ; in proportion to the adorability of her 
charms, in proportion you are delighted with my verses. The 
lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery 
of her smile, the divinity of Helicon ! 

To descend to business ; if you like my idea of " When she cam 
ben she bobbet," the following stanzas of mine, altered a little from 
what they were formerly when set to another air, may perhaps do 
instead of worse stanzas. 

SAW YE MY PHELY. 

(QUA8I DICAT PH1LUS.) 
Tune— "When she came ben she bobbet." 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely I 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely ] 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love, 

She winna come hame to her Willie. 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 

And for ever disowns thee her Willie. \ 

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
As light as the air, and as fause as thou's fair, 

Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willie. 



Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. The " Posie" (in the Mu- 
seum) is my composition : the air was taken down fron Mrs. Burns' 
voice.* It is well known in the West Country, but the old words 
are trash. By the bye, take a look at the tune again, and tell me 
if you do not think it is the original from which " Eoslin Castle" 
is composed. The second part, in particular, for the first two or 
three bars, is exactly the old air. " Strathallan's Lament" is mine ; 
the music is by our right trusty and deservedly well beloved Allan 
Masterton. " Donnochthead," is not mine: I would give ten 
pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald ; and 
came to the Editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on 
it.f " Whistle o'er the lave o't" is mine ; the music said to be by 

* The Posie will be found afterwards. This and the other poems of which he 
speaks, had appeared in Johnson's Museum, and Mr. T. had inquired whether 
they were our bard's. 

t The reader will be curious to see this poem so highly praised by Bubns. 
Here it is : — 

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head, • 

The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale, 
The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck, 

And shivering, tells his waefu' tale. 
" Cauld is the night, O let me in, 
And dinna let your minstrel fa', 
And dinna let his winding-sheet 
Be naething but a wreath o' snaw. 

" Full ninety winters hae I seen, 

And pip'd whar gor- cocks whirring flew ; 
And mony a day I've danc'd I ween, 

To lifts which from my drone I blew." 
My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cry'd, 

Get up, Guidman, and let him in ; 
For weel ye ken the winter night 

Was short when he began his din. 



528 burns' works. 

a John Bruce, a celebrated violin-player in Dumfries, about the 
beginning of this century. This, I know, Bruce, who was an honest 
man, though a red wud Highlandman, constantly claimed it ; and 
by all the old musical people here, believed to be the author of it. 

Andrew and his cutty gun. The song to which this is set in the 
Museum, is mine ; and was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, 
of Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called, the Flower of Strath- 
more. 

Sow lang and dreary is the night. I met with some such words 
in a collection of songs somewhere, which I altered and enlarged ; 
and to please you and to suit your favourite air, I have taken a 
stride or two across my room, and have arranged it anew, as you 
will find on the other page. 

How lang and dreary is the night, 

When I am frae my dearie ; 
I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 

Though I were ne'er sae weary. 

CHOKUS. 

For oh, her lanely nights are lang ; 

And oh, her dreams are eerie ; 
And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, 

That's absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lightsome days 

I spent wi' thee, my dearie ; 
And now what seas between us roar, 

How can I be but eerie ] 
For oh, &c. 

How slow ye move ye heavy hours ; 

The joyless day how dreary : 
It was na sae, ye glinted by, 

When 1 was wi' my dearie. 
For oh, &c. 

^ Tell me how you like this. I differ from your idea of the expres- 
sion of the tune. There is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in it. 
You cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a bass to your addenda 
airs. A lady of my acquaintance, a noted performer, plays and 
sings at the same time so charmingly, that I shall never bear to see 
any of her songs sent into the world, as naked as Mr. What-d'ye- 
call-um has done in his London collection.* 

My Eppie's voice, O vow it's sweet, 

Even tho' she bans and scaulds a wee; 
But when it's tun'd to sorrow's tale, 

O. haith, it's doubly dear to me ! 
Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire, 

I'll make it bleeze a bonnie flame : 
Your blood is thin, ye've tint the gate, 

Ye should na stray sae far frae hame. 

" Nae hame have I," the minstrel said, 
" Sad party-strife o'erturned my ha' ! 
And, weeping at the eve o' life, 
I wander thro' a wreath o' snaw." 
This affecting poem is apparently incomplete. The author need not be ashamed 
to own himself. It is worthy of Burns, or of Macneli, 

* Mr. EitscB, 



CORRESPONDENCE. 529 

These English songs gravel me to death. I have not that com- 
mand of the language that I have of my native tongue. I have 
been at Duncan Gray, to dress it in English, but all I can do is 
deplorably stupid. For instance. 

Tune — ■■ Duncan Gray," 

Let not woman e'er complain, 

Of inconsistency in love; 
Let not woman e're complain, 

Fickle man is apt to rove ; 

Look abroad through Nature's range, 

Nature's mighty law is change ; 
Ladies would it not be strange ; 

Man should then a monster prove? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 
Sun and moon but set to rise, 

Round and round the seasons go : 

Why then ask of silly man, 

To oppose great Nature's plan % 
We'll be constant while we can — 

You can be no more you know. 

Since the above, I have been out in the country taking a dinner 
with a friend, where I met with the lady whom 1 mentioned in the 
second page of this odds-and ends of a letter. As usual, I got into 
song ; and returning home, I composed the following. 

THE LOYER'S MORNING SALUTE 

TO HIS MISTRESS. 
Tune — " Deil tak the wars.'' 
Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature ? 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye. 
Numbering ilka bud which Nature 
Waters wi* the tears o' joy : 
\ Now through the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods ; 
Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray ; 
The lintwhite in his bower 
Chants o'er the breathing flower : 
The lav'rock to the sky 
Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day,* 

Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning 

Banishes ilka darksome shade, 
Nature gladdening and adorning ; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 

* Variation. Now to the streaming fountain, 

Or up the heathy mountain 
The hart, hind, and roe. freely, wildly-wan on stray 

In twining hazel bowers 

His lay the linnet pours : 

TuelaY'rock,&c. 
Z 



530 Burns* works. 

When absent frae my fair, 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky ; 

But when in beauty's light, 

She meets my ravish'd sight, 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light and joy.* 

If you honour my verses by setting the air to them, I will vamp 
up the old soug, and make it English enough to be understood. 

I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East Indian air, which you 
would swear was a Scottish one. I know the authenticity of it, as 
the gentleman who brought it over is a particular acquaintance of 
mine. Do preserve me the copy I send you, as it is the only one 
I have. Clark has set a bass to it, and I intend putting it into the 
Musical Museum. Here follow the verses I intend for it. 

THE AULD MAN. 

But lately seen in gladsome green 

The woods rejoiced the day, 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled, 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 
But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or beild, 

Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
Oh, age has weary day3, 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why comest thou not again ! 

I would be obliged to you if you would procure me a sight of 
Eitson's collection of English songs, which you mention in your 
letter. I will thank you for another information, and that as 
speedily as you please : whether this miserable drawling hotch- 
potch epistle has not completely tired you of my correspondence. 



No. LXI. 

ME. THOMSON to ME. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 27th October, 1794. 
I am sensible, my dear friend, that a genuine poet can no more 
exist without his mistress than his meat. I wish I knew the ador- 
able she, whose bright eyes and witching smiles have so often en- 

* Vabtatiox. When frae my Chloris parted, 

Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted, [sky; 
Th(n night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ereast my 

But when she charms my sight, 

In p; ide of beauty's light, 

"When thro' my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
; Tia then; Ms then I wake to life and joy. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 531 

raptured the Scottish bard ! that I might drink her sweet health 
when the toast is going round. " Craigie-burn wood" must certainly 
be adopted into my family, since she is the object of the song ; but 
in the name of decency, I must beg a new chorus verse from you. 
" to be lying beyond thee, dearie," is perhaps a consumption to be 
wished, but will not do for singing in the company of ladies. The 
songs in your last will do you lasting credit, and suit the respective 
airs charmingly. I am perfectly of your opinion with respect to the 
additional airs. The idea of sending them into the world naked as 
they were born was ungenerous. They must all be clothed and 
made decent by our friend Clarke. 

1 find I am anticipated by the friendly Cunningham, in sending 
you Eitson's Scottish collection. Permit me, therefore, to present 
you with his English collection, which you will receive by the 
coach. I do not find his historical essay on Scottish song interest- 
ing. Your anecdotes and miscellaneous remarks will, 1 am sure, 
be much more so. Allan has just sketched a charming design from 
Maggie Lauder. She is dancing with such spirit as to electrify the 
piper, who seems almost dancing too, while he is playing with the 
most exquisite glee. 

1 am much inclined to get a small copy, and to have it engraved 
in the style of Ritson's prints. 

P. S. — Pray, what do your anecdotes say concerning Maggie 
Lauder 1 was she a real personage, and of what rank ] You would 
surely spier for her if you ca J d at Anstruther toivn. 



MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 
No. LXII. 

November, 1794. 
Many thanks to you, my dear sir, for your present : it is a book of 
the utmost importance to me. I have yesterday begun my anec- 
dotes, &c, for your work. I intend drawing it up in the form of a 
letter to you, which will save me from the tedious dull business of 
systematic arrangement. Indeed, as all I have to say consists of 
unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps, old songs, &c, it would be 
impossible to give the work a beginning, a middle, and an end; 
which the critics insist to be absolutely necessary in a work.* In 
my last, 1 told you my objections to the song you had selected for 
my lodging is on the cold ground On my visit the other day to 
my fair Chloris (that is the name of the lovely goddess of my in- 
spiration) she suggested an idea, which I, in my return from the 
visit, wrought into the following song. 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 

The primrose banks how fair : 
The balmy gales awake the flowers, 

And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings : 
For nature smiles as sweet I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 

* It does not appear whether Burns completed these anecdotes, &c. Something 
of the kind (probably the rude draughts) was found amongst his papers, and ap- 
pear in p. xxvii, 



532 BURNS' WORKS. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha', 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blythe, in the birken shaw. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as ours, 

Beneath the milk-white thorn ] 

The shepherd in the flowery glen, 

In shepherd's phrase will woo ; 
The shepherd tells a finer tale, 

But is his heart as true 1 
These wild-wood flowers, I've pu'd to deck 

That spotless breast o* thine : 
The courtier's gems may witness love — 

But 'tis na love like mine. 

How do you like the simplicity and tenderness of this pastoral 1 
I think it pretty well. 

I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly into the story of 
ma chere amie. I assure you, I was never more earnest in my life, 
than in the account of that affair which I sent you in my last. — 
Conjugal love is a passion which I deeply feel and highly venerate ; 
but somehow, it does not make such a figure in poesy as that other 
species of the passion, 

Where Love is liberty, and nature law. 
Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which the gamut is 
scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet ; while the 
last has power equal to all the intellectual modulations of the hu- 
man soul. Still, I am a very poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. 
The welfare and happiness of the beloved object is the first and in- 
violate sentiment that pervades my soul ; and whatever pleasures I 
might wish for, or whatever might be the raptures they would give 
me, yet, if they interfere with the first principle, it is having these 
pleasures at a dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and generosity 
disdains to purchase ! 

Despairing of my own powers to give you variety enough in Eng« 
lish songs, 1 have been turning over old collections to pick out song3 
of which the measure is something similar to what I want : and, 
with a little alteration, so as to suit the rhyme of the air exactly, 
to give you them for your work. Where the songs have hitherto 
been but little noticed, nor have ever been set to music, I think 
the shift a fair one. A song, which, under the same first verse, you 
will find in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany, I have cut down for 
an English dress to your Dainyt Davie, as follows. 

SONG, 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH ONE. 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh and gay, 
One morning by the break of day, 
The youthful, charming Chloe ; 
From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt one her mantle and her hose, 






% CORRESPONDENCE. 533 

And o'er the flowery mead she goes, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

CHORUS. 

Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 
The feather'd people you might see, 
Perch'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody 
They hail the charming Chloe ; 

Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Outrivall'd by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she, &c. 
You may think meanly of this, but take a look at the bombast 
original, and you will be surprised that I have made so much of it. 
I have finished my song to " Rothiemurchie's Rant ;" and you have 
Clarke to consult, as to the set of the air for singing. 

LASSIE W? THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. 

Tune— "Rothiemurchie's Rant." 

CHORUS. 

Lassie wi' the lint- white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 
Wilt thou be my dearie 0. 
Now Nature deeds the flowery lea, 
And a' is young and sweet like thee ; 
O wilt thou share its joys wi* me, 
And say thou'lt be my dearie 0. 
Lassie wi' &c. 

And when the welcome summer shower 
Has cheer' ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower, 

At sultry noon, my dearie 0. 
Lassie wi' &c. 
When Cynthia lights, wi* silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way ; 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 

And talk o' love, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi', &c. 
And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest ; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 

I'll comfort thee, my dearie 0.* 

In some of the MSS. this stanza runs thus : 

And should the howling wintry blast 

Disturb my lassie's midnight rest : 

111 fauld thee to my faithful breast, 

And comfort thee, my dearie O. 



534 burns' works. 



Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 



Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 
Wilt thou be my dearie 0. 

This piece has at least the merit of being a regular pastoral : the 
vernal morn, the summer noon, the autumnal evening, and the 
winter night are regularly rounded. If you like it, well : if not I 
will insert it in the Museum. 

I am out of temper that you should set so sweet, so tender an 
air, as, " Deii tak the wars," to the foolish old verses. You talk 
of the silliness of * Saw ye my Father ;" by heavens the odds is 
gold to brass ! Besides, the old song, though now pretty well 
odernized into the Scottish language, is, originally, and in the 
early editions, a bungling low imitation of the Scottish manner, 
by that genius Tom D' Urfey ; so has no pretensions to be a Scottish 
production. There is a pretty English song by Sheridan in the 
" Duenna," to thi3 air, which is out of sight superior to D'Urfcy's. 
It begins 

" When sable night each drooping plant restoring.- ' 

The air, if I understand the expression of it properly, is the very 
native language of simplicity, tenderness and love. I have again 
gone over my song to the tune as follows. * 

Now for my English song to " Nancy's to the Greenwood," &c. f 
There is an air, "The Caledonian Hunt's delight," to which I wrote, 
a song that you will find in Johnson. Ye banks and braes o' bonnie 
Boon ; this air I think, might find a place among your hundred as 
Lear says, of his nights. Co you know the history of the air 1 It 
is curious enough. A good many years ago, Mr. James Miller, 
writer in your good town, a gentleman whom possibly you know, 
was in company with our friend Clarke ; and talking of Scottish 
music, Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be able to compose 
a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly by way of joke, told him to keep to 
the black keys of the harpsichord, and preserve some kind of 
rhythm; and he would infallibly compose a Scots air. Certain it is 
that in a few days, Mr. Miller produced the rudiments of au air, which 
Mr. Clarke, with some touches and corrections, fashioned into the 
tune in question. Eitson, you know has the same story of the " black 
keys;" but this account, which I have just given you, Mr. Clarke 
informed me of several years ago. Now, to show you how difficult 

* See the song in its first and best dress in p. 529. Our bard remarks upon it, 
' ■ I could easily throw this into an English mould ; but, to my taste, "in the 
simple and the tender of the pastoral song, a sprinkling of the old Scottish has an 
inimitable effect. 

t Here our poet gives a new edition of the song in p. 487 of this volume, and 
proposes it for another tune. The alterations are unimportant. The name Maria 
he changes to Eliza. Instead of the fifth and sixth lines, as in p. 488 he in- 
troduces, 

" Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 
I fain my griefs would cover." 

Instead of the tenth line, which seems not perfectly grammatical as it is printed, 
he has, more properly, 

" Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me." 

This edition ought to have been preferred had it been observed in time. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 535 

it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have heard it repeatedly as- 
serted that this was an Irish air ; nay, I met with an Irish gentle- 
man who affirmed that he had heard it in Ireland among the old 
women ; while, on the other hand, a countess informed me that the 
first person who introduced the air into this country, was a 
baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who took down the notes from 
an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How difficult then to ascer- 
tain the truth respecting our poesy and music ! I, myself, have 
lately seen a couple of ballads sung through the streets of Dum- 
fries, with my name at the head of them as the author, though it 
was the first time I had ever seen them. 

I thank you for admitting " Craigie-burn wood f and I shall take 
care to furnish you with a new chorus. In fact, the chorus was 
not my work, but a part of some old verses to the air. If I catch 
myself in a more than ordinarily propitious moment I shall write 
a new "Craigie-burn wood" altogether. My heart is much in the 
theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the request ; 'tis dun- 
ning your generosity ; but in a moment when I had forgotten whe- 
ther I was rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your songs. It 
wrings my honest pride to write you this ; but an ungracious re- 
quest is doubly so, by a tedious apology. To make you some 
amends as soon as I have extracted the necessary information out 
of them, I will return you Ritson's volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to make so distinguished 
a figure in your collection, and I am not a little proud that I have 
it in my power to please her so much. Lucky it is for your pa- 
tience that my paper is done for when I am in a scribbling humour 
I know not when to give over. 

Ko. LXIII. 
MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

My Good Sir, 15th November, 1794. 

Since receiving your last, I have had another interview with Mr. 
Clarke, and a long consultation. He thinks the Caledonian Hunt 
is more bacchanalian than amorous in its nature, and recommends 
it to you to match the air accordingly. Pray did it ever occur to 
you how peculiarly well the Scottish airs are adapted for verses, in 
the form of a dialogue 1 The first part of the air is generally low, 
and suited for a man's voice, and the second part, in many instances, 
cannot be sung at concert pitch, but by a female voice. A song 
thus performed makes an agreeable variety, but few of ours are 
written in this form : I wish you would think of it in some of those 
that remain. The only one of the kind you have sent me is admir- 
able, and will be a universal favourite. 

The verses for Rothiemurchie are so sweetly pastoral, and your 
seranade to Chloris, for Deil iah the wars, so passionately tender 
that I have sung myself into raptures with them. Your song for 
My lodging is on the cold ground is likewise a diamond of the first 
water ; I am quite dazzled and delighted by it. Some of your 
Chlorises I suppose have flaxen hair, from your partiality for this 
colour; else we differ about it ; for I should scarcely conceive a 
woman to be a beauty, on reading that she had lint- white-locks I 



536 burns' works. 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows, I think excellent, but 
it is much too serious to come after Nancy ; at least it would seem 
an incongruity to provide the same air with merry Scottish and 
melancholy English verse3 ! The more that the two sets of verses 
resemble each other in their general character, the better. Those 
you have manufactured for " Dainty Davie" will answer charmingly. 
I am happy to find you have begun your anecdotes. 1 care not 
how long they be, ior it is impossible that any thing from your pen 
can be tedious. Let me beseech you to use no ceremony in telling 
me when you wish to present any of your friends with the songs : 
the next carrier will bring you three copies, and you are as wel- 
come to twenty as to a pinch of snuff. 



No. LXIY. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

19lh November, 1794. 
You see, my dear sir, what a punctual correspondent I am 
though indeed you may thank yourself for the tedium of my letters 
as you have so flattered me on my horsemanship with my favourite 
hobby, and have praised the grace of his ambling so much, that I 
am scarcely ever off his back. For instance, this morning, though 
a keen blowing frost, in my walk before breakfast, I finished my 
duet which you were pleased to praise so much. Whether 1 have 
uniformly succeeded, I will not say ; but here it is for you ; though 
it is not an hour old. 

Tunb— u The sow's tail." 

HE. 

Philly, happy be that day 
When roving through the gather'd hay. 
My youthfu' heart was stown away, 
And by thy charms, my Philly. 

SHE. 

O Willie, aye I bless the grove 
Where first 1 own'd my maiden love, 
Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above, 
To be my ain dear Willie. 

HE. 

As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 

SHE. 

As on the brier the budding rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows, 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willie. 

HE. 

The milder sun and bluer sky, 
That crowns my harvest cares wi' joy, 
Were ne'er 3ae welcome in my eye 
As is a sight of Philly. 



correspondence; 537 

SHE. 

The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho* wafting o'er the flowery spiing 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
As meeting o' my Willie. 

HE. 

The bee, that thro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 

SHE. 

The woodbine in the dewy weet 
"When evening shades in silence meet, 
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willie. 

HE. 

Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 
And fools may tyne, and knaves may win : 
My thoughts are a' bound upon ane, 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 

SHE. 

What's a' the joys thatgowd can gie! 
I care nae wealth a single flie ; 
The lad I loe's the lad for me, 
And that's my ain dear Willie. 

Tell me honestly how you like it : and point out whatever you 
think faulty. 

I am much pleased with your idea of singing our songs in alter- 
nate stanza?, and regret that you did not hint it to me sooner. In 
those that remain, I shall have it in my eye. I remember your ob- 
jections to the name, Philly; but it is the common abreviation of 
Phillis. Sally, the only name that suits, has to my ear, a vulgarity 
about it, which unfits it for any thing but burlesque. The legion of 
Scottish poetasters of the day, whom your brother editor, Mr. Kit- 
son, ranks with me, as my coevals, has always mistaken vulgarity 
for simplicicy ; whereas simplicity is as much eloignee from vulgar- 
ity on the one hand, as from affected point and puerile conceit, on 
the other. 

I agree with you as to the air, " Cragie-burn wood," that a cho- 
rus would in some degree spoil the effect, and shall certainly have 
none in my'projected song to it. It is not however a casein point with 
il Eothiemurchie ;" there, as in " Eoy's Wife of Aldivalloch," a 
chorus goes to my taste well enough. As to the chorus going first, 
that is the case with " Roy's Wife," as well as " Rothiemurchie." 
In fact, in the first part of both tunes, the rhyme is so peculiar and 
irregular, and on that irregularity depends so much of their beau- 
ty, that we must e'en take them with all their wildness, and hu- 
mour the verse accordingly. Leaving out the staring note, in both 
tunes, has, I think, an effect that no regularity could counterbal* 
ance the want of. 
z 5 



538 Burns' works. 



T [ Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 



lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 



and 



Compare f Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
with \ Lassie wi' the lint- white locks. 

Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable strike yon ? In the 
last case, with the true furor of genius, you strike at once into the 
wild originality of the air; whereas in the first insipid method, it is 
like the grating screw of the pins before the fiddle is brought into 
tune. This is my taste ; if I'm wrong I beg pardon of the cognoscenti. 
" The Caledonian Hunt" is so charming, that it would make any 
subject in a song go down : but pathosis certainly its native tongue. 
Scottish Bacchanalians we certainly want, though the few we have 
are excellent. For instance, " Todlin hame" is, for wit and hu- 
mour, an unparalled composition ; and " Andro and his cutty gun' 
is the work of a master. By the way, are you not quite 
vexed to think that those men of genius, for such they certainly 
were, who composed our fine Scottish lyrics, should be unknown ! 
It has given me many a heart-ache. Apropos to Bacchanalian songs 
in Scottish ; I composed one yesterday ior an air I like much — 
H Lumps o' pudding." 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp, as they're creeping alang, 
WF a cog o' guid swats and an auld Scottish sang. 

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought ; 
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught : 
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch, 
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa' 
A night o' guid fellowship so wt hers it a' : 
When at the blythe end of our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past 1 

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoy te on her way ; 
Be'tto me, be't fraeme, e'en let the jad gae : 
Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure or pain ; 
My warst word is — " Welcome and welcome again !" 

If you do not relish the air, I will send it to Johnson. 

Since yesterday's penmanship, I have framed a couple of Eng- 
lish son* to " Roy's wife." You will allow me that in this instance, 
my English corresponds in sentiment with the Scottish. 

CANST THOU LEAYE ME THUS MY KATY? 

Tune—" Roy's wife." 

CHORUS. 

Canst thou leave me thus my Katy % 
Canst thou leave me thus my Katy 1 
Well thou know'st my aching heart, 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? 



CORRESPONDENCE, 539 

It this thy plighted fond regard, 

Thus cruelly to part, my Katy % 
Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 

An aching, broken heart, my Katy % 
Canst thou, &c. 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 

That fickle heart of thine, my Katy : 
Thou may'st find those will love thee dear — 

But not a love like mine my Katy 1 
Canst thou, &c.* 

Well ! I think this, to be done in two or three turns across my 
room, and with two or three pinches of Irish Blackguard, is not so 
far amiss. You see I am determined to have my quantum of ap- 
plause from somebody. 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we only want the trifling 
circumstance of being known to one another, to be the best friends 
on earth), that I much suspect he has, in his plates, mistaken the 
figure of the stock and horn. I have, at last, gotten one ; but it is 
a very rude instrument. It is composed of three parts ; the stock 
which is the hinder thigh- bone of a sheep, such as you see in a mut- 
ton-ham ; the horn, which is a common Highland cow's horn, cut 
off at the smaller end, until the aperture be large enough to admit 
the stock to be pushed up through the horn, until it be held by the 
thicker end of the thigh-bone ; and lastly, an oaken reed exactly 
cut and notched like that which you see every shepherd-boy have, 
when the corn stems are green and full-grown. The reed is not 
made fast in the bone, but is held by the lips, and plays loose in the 

* To this address, in the character of a forsaken lover, a reply was found on the 
part of the lady, among the MSS. of our bard, evidently in a female hand writing ; 
which is doubtless that referred to in p. 506 of this volume. The temptation to 
give it to the public is irresistible ; and if, in so doing, offence should be given to 
^he fair authorities, the beauty of her verses must plead our excuse, 

Tune— 'Roy's wife.' 

CHORUS. 

Stay, my Willie— yet believe me, 

Stay, my Willie — yet believe me, 

'tweel thou know'st na every pang 

Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou leave me, 

Tell me that thou yet art true. 
And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven, 
And when this heart proves fause to thee, 
Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. 
Stay, my Willie, &c. 

But to think I was betray'd 
That falsehood e'er our love should sunder 

To take the flow'ret to my breast, 
And find the guile fu' serpent under 1 
Stay, my Willie, &c. 

Could I hope thou'st ne'er deceive, 

Celestial pleasures might I choose 'em 
I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres 

That heaven I'd find within thy bosom. 
Stay, my Willie, &c. 

It may amuse the reader to be told, that on this occasion the gentleman and 
the lady have exchanged the dialects of their respective countries. The Scottish 
bard makes his address in pure English ; the reply on .the part of the lady, in the 
Scottish dialect, is, if we mistake not, by a young and beautiful Englishwoman. 



J 



540 burns' works. 



smaller end of the stock; while the stock, with the horn hanging 
on its larger end, is held by the hands in playing. The stock has 
six or seven ventiges on the upper side, and one back-ventige, like 
the common flute. This of mine was made by a man from the braes 
of Athole, and is exactly what the shepherds are wont to use in this 
country. 

However, either it is not quite properly bored in the holes, or 
elee we have not the art of blowing it rightly; for we can make 
little use of it. If Mr. Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of 
mine ; as I took ony mself to be a kind of brother-brush with him. 
" Pride in Poets is nae sin," and, I will say it, that I look on Mr. 
Allan and Mr. Burns to be the only genuine and real painters of 
Scottish custom in the world. 



No. LXY. 
MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

28^ November 1794. 
I acknowledge, my dear sir, you are not only the most punctual, 
but the most delectable correspondent I ever met with. To at- 
tempt flattering you never entered my head ; the truth is, 1 look 
back with surprise at my impudence, in so frequently nibbling at 
lines and couplets of your incomparable lyrics, for which, perhaps, 
if you had served me right, you would have sent me to the de- 
vil. On the contrary, however, you have all along condescended 
to invite my criticism with so much [courtesy, that it (ceases to be 
wonderful, if 1 have sometimes given myself the airs of a re- 
viewer. Your last budget demands unqualified T^'aise I all the 
songs are charming,^ but the duet |. is a ckef d'ceurre. " Lumps of 
pudding" shall certainly make one of my family dishes : you have 
cooked it so capitally, that it will please all palates. Do give us 
a few more of this cast, when you find yourself in good spirits : 
these convivial songs are more wanted than those of the amor- 
ous kind, oi which we have great choice. Besides, one does not 
oiten meet with a singer capable of giving the proper effect to the 
latter, while the former are easily sung, and acceptable to every 
body. I participate in your regret that the authors of some of our 
best songs are unknown ; it is provoking to every admirer of genius. 

I mean to have a picture painted from your beautiful ballad, 
" The soldier's return," to be engraved for one of my frontispieces. 
The most interesting point of time appears to me, when she first 
recognizes her ain dear Willy, a She gaz'd, she redden'd like a 
rose." The three lines immediately following, are no doubt more 
impressive on the reader's feelings ; but were the painter to fix on 
these, then you'll observe the animation and anxiety of her coun- 
tenance is gone, and he could only represent her fainting in the 
soldier's arms. But 1 submit the matter to yon, and beg your 
opinion. 

Allan desires me to thank you, for your accurate description of 
the stock and horn, and for the very gratifying compliment you 
pay him, in considering him worthy of standing in a niche by the 
side of Burns in the Scottish Pantheon, lie has seen the rude in- 
strument you describe, so does not want you to Bend it ; but wishes 
to know whether you believe it to have ever been generally used 






correspondence^ 541 

- 

as a musical pipe by the Scottish shepherds, and when, and in what 
part of the country chiefly. 1 doubt much if it was capable of any 
thing but routing and roaring. A friend of mine says, he remem- 
bers to have seen one in his younger days (made of wood instead of 
your bone,) and that the sound was abominable. 
Do not, 1 beseech you, return any books. 



No. LXVI. 
ME. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

December. 1794. 

It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart to do any thing to for- 
ward your book ; and as I agree with you that the Jacobite song in 
the Museum, to " There'll ne'er be peace till Jamie comes hame," 
would not so well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent love-song 
to the air, I have just framed for you the following. 

MY NANNIE'S AWA. 
Tune — There'll ne'er be peace, &c. 

Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, 
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw ; 
But to me its delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews o' the lawn, 
The shepherd to warn o' the grey breaking dawn, 
And thou mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa, 1 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

Come autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, 
And soothe me wi' tidings o' Nature's decay ; 
The dark dreary winter and wild driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa. 



No. LXVII. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

January, 1795. 

I fear for my songs : however, a few may please, yet originality is 
a coy feature, in composition, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the 
same style, disappear altogether. For these three thousand years, 
we poetic folks have been describing the spring, for instance ; and 
as the spring continues the same, there must soon be a sameness in 
the imagery, &c. of these said rhyming folks. 

A jrreat critic, Aiken on songs, say*, that love and wine are the 
exclusive themes for song writing. The following is on neither sub- 
ject, and consequently, is no song; but will be allowed, I think, to 
be two or three pretty good prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme. 



\J 



542 



burn's works. 

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 

Is there for honest poverty 

That hangs his head, and a' that; 
The coward slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toils obscure, and a' that, 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine, 
Wear hoddin* grey, and a' that ; 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
A man's a man for a' that ; 

For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show and a' that : 

The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 






Is king o 



men for a' that. 



Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that : 
Though hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that, 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith, he mauna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o' sense and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree, and a' that. 
For a' that and a* that, 

Its comin' yet for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 

I do not give you the foregoing song for your book, but merely 
by way of Vive la bagatelle; for the piece is not really poetry. 
How will the following do for "Craigie-burn wood?" 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 

And blythe awakes the morrow, 
But a' the pride o' spring's return 

Can yield me nocht but sorrow, 

I see the flowers and spreading trees, 
I hear the wild birds singing ; 






CORRESPONDENCE. 543 

But what a weary wight can please, 
And care his bosom wringing ] 

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 

Yet dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shalt love anither, 
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, 

Around my grave they'll wither.* 
Farewell ! God bless you. 



No. XLYIII. 

MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

My Dear Sir, Edinburgh, ZOth Jan, 1795. 

I thank you heartily for "Nannie's awa," as well as for "Craigie- 
burn," which I think a very comely pair. Your observation on the 
difficulty of original writing in a number of efforts, in the same 
style, strikes me very forcibly ; and it has again and again excited 
my wonder to find you continually surmounting this difficulty, in 
the many delightful songs you have sent me. Your vive la baga 
telle song, "For a' that," shall undoubtedly be included in my list. 



No. LXIX. 
MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

February, 1795. 
Here is another trial at your favourite air. 

Tune.—* Let me in this ae night.' 

O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet, 

Or art thou wakin, I would wit, 
For love has bound me hand and foot, 

And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

O let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night, 
For pity's sake this ae night, 

rise and let me in jo. 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet, 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 
And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
let me in, &c. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 

* Craigie burn wood is situated on the banks of the river Moffat, and about 
three miles distant from the village of that name, celebrated for its medicinal wa- 
ters. The woods of Craigie-burn and of Dumcrief, were at one time the favour- 
ite haunts of our poet. It was there he met the "Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 1 ' 
and that he conceived several of his beautiful lyrics. 



\J 



514 BURNS' WORKS. 

The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 

let me in, &c. 

HER ANSWER. 

O Tell nae me o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid nae me wi' cauld disdain, 
Gae back the road ye cam again, 
I winna let you in jo. 

CHORUS. 

I tell you now this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
And ance for a' this ae night ; 

1 winna let you in, jo. 

The snellest blast at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wand'rer pours, 
Is nought to what poor she endures 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 
I tell you now, &c. 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, 
Now trodden like the vilest weed : 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain jo. 
I tell you now, &c. 

The bird that charm'd his summer-day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting woman say 
How aft her fate*s the same, jo. 
I tell you now, &c. 

I do not know whether it will do. 



♦ 



No. LXX. 
MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

Ecclefechan. 7th February^ 1795. 
My Dkar Thomson, 
You cannot have any idea of the predicament in which I write to 
you. In the course of my duty as supervisor (in which capacity I 
have acted of late) I came yesternight to this unfortunate, wicked 
little village. I have gone forward, but snows of ten feet deep 
have impeded my progress : I have tried to " gae back the gate I 
cam again," but the same obstacle has shut me up within insuper- 
able bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has 
been torturing catgut, in sounds that would have insulted the dy- 
ing agonies of a row, under the hands of a butcher, and thinks 
himself, on that very account, exceeding good company. In fact, I 
have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk, to forget these 
miseries ; or to hang myself, to get rid of them : like a prudent 
man, (a character congenial to my every thought, word, and deed.) 



CORRESPONDENCE. 545 

I, of two evils have chosen the least, and am very drunk, at your 
service !* 

I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I had not time then to 
tell you all I wanted to say ; and heaven knows, at present, I have 
not capacity. 

Do you know an air — I am sure you must know it, " We'll gang 
nae mair to yon town t" I think, in slowish time, it would make an 
excellent song. I am highly delighted with it ; and if you should 
think it worthy of your attention, I have a fair dame in my eye to 
whom I would consecrate it. 

As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good night. 

No. LXXL 

MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

25th February, 1795. 

I havh to thank you, my dear sir, for two epistles, one containing 
" Let me in this ae night ;" and the other from Ecclefechan, proving, 
that drunk or sober, your " mind is never muddy." You have dis- 
played great address in the above song. Her answer is excellent, 
and at the same time takes away the indelicacy that otherwise 
would have attached to his entreaties. I like the song as it now 
stands, very much. 

I had hopes you would be arrested some days at Ecclefechan, 
and be obliged to beguile the tedious forenoons by song making. 
It will give me pleasure to receive the verses you intend for, " 
wat ye wha's in this town." 



No. LXXII. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1795. 

ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. 

Tune.— " Where'll bonnie Annie lie." Or, " Loch-Erroch Side." 

O Stat, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A helpless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That 1 may catch thy melting art : 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind % 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, 
Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 
0' speechless grief, and dark despair : 
Eor pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair % 
Or my poor heart is broken % 
♦The bard must have been tipsy indeed, to abuse sweet Ecclefechan at this rate. 



r 



1/ 



i 



546 burns' works. 

Let ine know your very first leisure how you like this song. 
ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 
Tune— " Aye wakinV 
CHORUS. 

Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrow, 
While my souYs d elight, 

Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Can I cease to care, 

Can I cease to languish, 
While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish ? 
Long, &c. 

Every hope is fled, 

Every fear is terror : 
Slumber e'en I dread, 

Every dream is horror. 
Long, &c. 

Hear me, pow'rs divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine, 

But my Chloris spare me ! 
Long, &c. 

How do you like the foregoing 1 The Irish air, " Humours of 
Glen," is a great favourite of mine, and as, except the silly stuff in 
the u Poor Soldier," there are not any descent verses for it, I have 
written for it as follow. 

SONG. 
Tune—" Humours of Glen," 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, 

Where bright beaming summers exalt the perfume, 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 

Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom : 
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 

Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen : 
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 

A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Thro' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, 

And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, 

What are they ] The haunt o' the tyrant and slave ! 
The slave's spicy forests, and gold bubbling fountains, 

The brave Caledonian views with disdain ; 
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 

Save Love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean, 

SONG. 
Tune— * Laddie, lie near me.' 
'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing: 



CORRESPONDENCE. 647 

'Twas the dear smile when nae body did mind us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o 1 kindness, 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest ! 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter, 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 

Let me hear from you. 

No. LXXI1I. 

MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

You must not think, my good sir, that I have any intention to en- 
hance the value of my gift, when I say, in justice to the ingenious 
and worthy artist, that the design and execution of the Cotter's 
Saturday Night is, in my opinion, one of the happiest productions 
of Allans pencil. I shall be grievously disappointed if you are not 
quite pleased with it. 

The figure intended for your portrait, I think strikingly like you, 
as far as I can remember your phiz. This should make the piece 
interesting to your family every way. Tell me whether Mrs. Burns 
finds you out among the figures. 

I cannot express the feeling of admiration with which I have 
read your pathetic "Address to the Wood-lark," your elegant "Pane- 
gyric on Caledonia," and your affecting verses on " Chloris' illness." 
Every repeated perusal of these gives new delight. The other song 
to " Laddie, lie near me," though not equal to these, is very pleasing. 



No. LXXIV. 
MR, BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG. 
Air. — " John Anderson my jo." 

How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize, 
And to the wealthy booby, 

Poor woman sacrifice. 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 

The ravening hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thus flies, 
To shun impelling ruin 

A while her pinions tries ; 
'Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat, 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet. 



'/ 



* 



548 BURNS' WORKS. 

SOXG. 
Tune—" Deil tak the wars.'' 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 

Round the wealthy, titled bride : 
But when compared with real passion, 

Poor is all that princely pride. 

What are their showy treasures ] 

What are their noisy pleasures 1 
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art. 

The polish'd jewel's blaze, 

May draw the wond'ring gaze, 

And courtly grandeur bright, 

The fancy may delight, 
But never, never can come near the heart. 

But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 

then the heart alarming, 

And all resistless charming, 
In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul ! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown. 

Even Av'rice would deny 

His worshipp'd deity, 
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. 

Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I answer your orders : 
your tailor could not be more punctual. I am just now in a high 
fit of poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of criticism don't 
cure me. If you can in a post or two administer a little of the 
intoxicating potion of your applause, it will raise your humble ser- 
vant's phrenzy to any height you want. I am at this moment 
" holding high converse" with the Muses, and have not a word to 
throw away on such a prosaic dog as you are. 



Xo. LXXY. 

MR. BURXS to MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1794. 
Ten thousand thanks, for your elegant present; though 1 am 
ashamed of the value of it, being bestowed on a man who has not 
by any means merited such an instance of kindness. I have shown 
it to two or three judges of the first abilities here, and they all 
agree with me in classing it as a first-rate production. My phiz is 
" sae kenspeckle," that the very joiner's apprentice whom Mr3. 
Burns employed to break up the parcel (I was out of town that 
day) knew it at once. My most grateful compliments to Allan, 
who has honoured my rustic muse so much with his masterly pencil. 
One strange coincidence is, that the little one who is making the 
felonious attempt on the cat's tail, is the most striking likeness of 
" ill-deedie damn'd, wee, rumble-garie urchin" of mine, whom, from 
that propensity to witty wickedness and manfu' mischief, which 



CORRESPONDENCE. 549 

even at twa days auld I foresaw would form the striking features of 
his disposition, I named Willie Nicol, after a certain friend of mine, 
who is one of the masters of a grammar-school in a city which shall 
be nameless. 

Give the inclosed epigram to my much- valued friend Cunningham, 
and tell him that on Wednesday I go to visit a friend of his, to 
whom his friendly partiality in speaking of me, in a manner intro- 
duced me — I mean a well known military and literary character, 
Colonel Dirom. 

You do not tell me how you liked my two last songs. Are they 
condemned ? 



]S T o. LXXVI. 
ME. THOMSON to ME.. BURNS. 

IZth May, 1795. 

It gives me great pleasure to find that you are all so well satisfied 
with Mr. Allan's production. The chance resemblance of your little 
fellow, whose promising disposition appeared so very early, and sug- 
gested whom he should be named after, is curious enough. I am 
acquainted with that person, who is a prodigy of learning and 
genius, and a pleasant fellow, though no saint. 

You really make me blush when you tell me you have not 
merited the drawing from me. I do not think I can ever repay 
you, or sufficiently esteem and respect you for the liberal and kind 
manner in which you have entered into the spirit of my undertak- 
ing, which could not have been perfected without you : So I beg 
you would not make a fool of me again, by speaking of obligation. 

I like your two last songs very much, and am happy to find you 
are in such a high fit of poetizing. Long may it last. Clarke has 
made a fine pathetic air to Mallet's superlative ballad of William 
and Margaret, and is to give it to me, to be inrolled among the 
elect. 



No. LXXVII. 

ME. BURNS to ME. THOMSON. 

In Whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad, the iteration of that line is 
tiresome to my ear. Here goes what I think is an improvement. 

whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad; 

O whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 

Tho' father and mother, and a' should gae mad, 

Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad. 

In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine I, the priest of the Nine, 
offer up the incense of Parnassus ; a dame whom the Graces have 
attired in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed with light- 
ning, a Fair One, herself the heroine of the song, insists on the 
mendment; and dispute her commands if you dare I 



/ 



* 



550 BUBN8' WORKS. 

SONG. 

Tune.— ( This is no my ain house' 
CHOR¥S. 

this is no my ain lassie 

Fair tho' the lassie be ; 
O weel ken I my ain lassie, 

Kind love is in her e'e. 

I see a form, I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants to me the witching grace, 
The kind o' love that's in her e'e. 
this is no, &c. 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 
And aye it charms my very saul, 

The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O this is no, &c. 
A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a blink by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light are lover's e'en, 

When kind love is in her e'e. 
this is no, &c. 

It may escape the courtly sparks, 
It may escape the learned clerks ; 
But weel the watching lover marks, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
this is no, &c. 

Do you know that you have roused the torpidity of Clarke at 
last ] He has requested me to write three or four songs for him, 
which he is to set to music himself. The inclosed sheet contains 
two songs for him, which please to present to my valued friend 
Cunningham. 

I inclose the sheet open, both for your inspection, and that you 
may copy the song, " bonnie was yon rosy brier." I do not know 
whether I am right ; but that song pleases me, and as it is ex- 
tremely probable that Clarke's newly roused celestial spark will 
soon be smothered in the fogs of indulgence, if you like the song, 
it may go as Scottish verses, to the air of " I wish my love was in 
the mire ;" and poor Erskine's English lines may follow. 

I inclose you f< For a' that and a' that," which was never in print : 
it is a much superior song to mine. 1 have been told that it was 
composed by a lady. 

To MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
SCOTTISH SONG. 
Now spring has clad the grove in green, 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nature join 
Their sorrows to forego, 



CORRESPONDENCE. 551 

O why thus all alone are mine 
The weary steps of woe ! 

The trout within yon wimpling burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart, 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art ; 
My life was ance that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 
"Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
And now beneath the with'ring blast, 

My youth and joy consume. 

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, 

And climbs the early sky, 
Winnowing bly the her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little reckt I sorrow's power, 

Until the flowery snare 
0' witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall o' care. 

had my fate been Greenland's snows, 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagued my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! ^ 

The wretch whase doom is, "hope nae mair," 

That tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whase bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 

SCOTTISH SONG. 

eohnie was yon rosy brier, 
That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; 

And bonnie she, and ah ! how dear ! 
It shaded frae the e'enin' sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew 

How pure, amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow 

They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 

All in its rude and prickly bower, 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 

Wi* Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 
And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 

Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



/ 



* 



552 BURNS 5 WORKS. 

Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of my 
poems presented to the lady, whom in so many fictitious reveries of 
passion, but with the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I 
have so often sung under the name of Chloris. 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly few. 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 

Chill came the tempest's lour ; 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower.) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 

Still much is. left behind : 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store, 

The comforts of the mind I 

Thine is the self approving glow, 

On conscious honour's part ; 
And, dearest gift of heaven below, 

Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refined of sense and taste 

With every muse to rove ; 
And doubly were the poet blest 

These joys could he improve. 

Une bagatelle de Vamitie. 



No. LXXV1II. 
MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

Dear Sir, Edinburgh , Aug. 3rd, 1795. 

Tali will be delivered to you by a Dr. Brianton, who has read 
your works, and pants for the honour of your acquaintance. I do 
not know the gentleman, but his friend who applied to me for this 
introduction, being an excellent young man, I have no doubt he is 
worthy of all acceptation. 

My eyes have just been gladdened, and my mind feasted, with 
your last packet— full of pleasant things indeed. What an imagin- 
ation is yours ! It is superfluous to tell you that I am delighted 
with all the three songs, as well as your elegant and tender verses 
to Chloris. 

I am sorry you should be induced to alter " whistle and I'll 
come to ye, my lad," to the prosaic line, " Thy Jeany will venture 
wi' ve my lad." I must be permitted to say, that I do not think 
qhe latter either reads or sings go well as the former. I wish, 



CORRESPONDENCE. 553 

therefore, you would in my name petition the charming Jeany, 
whoever she be, to let the line remain unaltered.* 

I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke produce a few songs to be 
joined to your verses. Every body regrets his writing so very lit- 
tle, as every body acknowledges his ability to write well. Pray, 
was the resolution formed coolly before dinner, or was it a mid- 
night vow made over a bowl of punch with the bard 1 

I shall not fail to give Mr. Cunningham what you have sent him. 

P.S. — The lady's " For a' that and a' that" is sensible enough, 
but no more to be compared to your's than I to Hercules, 



No. LXXIX. 
MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

ENGLISH SONG. 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 

Far, lar from thee I wander here ; 

Far, far from thee, the fate severe 

At which I most repine, love. 

CHORUS. 

wert thou love, but near me, 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me. 
And mingle sighs with mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in these arms of thine, love. 
wert, &c. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, 
To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 
Let me not break thy faithful heart, 
And say that fate is mine, love. 
wert, &c. 

But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
wert, &c. 

Hot.' do you like the foregoing] I have written it within this 
hour : so much for the speed of my Pegasus ; but what say you to 
his bottom I 

* The Editor, who has heard the heroine of this song sing it herself in the very 
spirit of arch simplicity that it requires, thinks Mr. Thompson's petition unrea- 
sonable. If we mistake not, this is the same lady who produced the lines to the 
tune of Roy's Wife, p.539 f 
2 A 



!l 



554 BURNS' WORKS. 

2*0. LXXX. 

MK. BUENS to MR. THOMSON. 

SCOTTISH BALLAD. 

Tune—" The Lothian Lassie." 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 

I said there was naething I hated like men, 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me, believe me, 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me. 

He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black e'en, 
And vow'd for my love he was dying ; 

I said he might die when he liked, for Jean, 
I The Lord forgi'e me for lying, for lying, 

The Lord forgi'e me for lying ! 

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel' for the laird, 
And marriage aff hand, were his proffers : 

I never loot on that I kend it, or cared, 
But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, 
But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But what wad ye think 1 in a fortnight or less, 
The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,* 

Guess ye how the jad I could bear her, could bear her, 
Guess ye how the jad I could bear her. 

But a* the neist week as I fretted wi* care, 

I gaed to the tryste of Dalgarnock, 
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there ! 

I glowred as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 

I glowred as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 
Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I spier'd for my cousin fa' couthy and sweet, 

Gin she had recovered her hearin, 
And how her new shoon fit her auld shachlet* feet, 

But heavens ! how he fell a swearin, a swearin ! 

But heavens ! how he fell a swearin. 

He begged, for Gude3ake ! I wad be his wife, 
\ Or else I would kill him wi' sorrow : 

So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 



* In the original MS. this line runs, " He up the Gateslack to my black cousin 
Bess :" Mr. Thomson objected to this word, as well as to the word '« Dalgarnock" 
in the next verse. Mr. Burns replies as follows : 

" Gateslack is the name of a particular place, a kind of passage, up amang the 
Lawther hills, on the confines of this country." " Dalgarnock is also the name of 
a romantic spot near the Nith, where are still a ruined church and a burial- 
ground." However let the first line run, " He up the lang loan," &c. 

It is always a pity to throw out any thing that giYOS locality to our poet's yerses# 



CORRESPONDENCE. 555 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, 

FRAGMENT. 

TctfE— " The Caledonian Hunt's delight." 

Why, why tell thy lover, 

Bliss he never must enjoy ; 
Why, why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie. 

why, while fancy, raptured, slumbers, 

Chloris, Chloris all the theme, 
Why, why wouldst thou, cruel, 

Wake thy lover from his dream. 



Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this air, that I find it 
impossible to make another stanza to suit it. 

I am at present quite occupied with the charming sensations of 
the toothache, so have not a word to spare. 



No. LXXXI. 
MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 
My Dear Sir, %d June, 1795. 

Your English verses to " Let me in this ae night," are tender and 
beautiful ; and your ballad to the " Lothian Lassie" is a master- 
piece for its humour and naivetS. The fragment for the " Caledonian 
Hunt," is quite suited to the original measure of the air, and, as it 
plagues you so, the fragment must content it. I would rather, as I 
said before, have had Bacchanalian words, had it so pleased the poet ; 
but, nevertheless, for what we have received, Lord make U3 thankful. 



No. LXXXII. 
MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

5th February, 1796. 

Robby Burns, are ye sleeping yet 1 
Or are ye wauking, I would wit 1 

The pause you have made, my dear sir, is awful ! Am I never to 
hear from you again? I know and I lament how much you h*ve 
been afflicted of late, but I trust that returning health and spirits 
will now enable you to resume the pen, and delight us with your 
musings. I have still about a dozen Scotch and Irish airs that I 
wish "married o immortal verse." We have several true-born 
Irishmen on the Scottish list; but they are now naturalized, and 
reckoned our ow$ good subjects. Indeed we have none better. I be- 
lieve I before told you that I have been much urged by some 
friends to publish a collection of all our favourite airs and songs in 
octavo, embellished with a number of etchings by our ingenious 
frieud Allan ; what is your opinion of this * 



I 



556 burns' works. 

No. LXXXIII. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

February, 1796. 
Many thanks, my dear sir, for your handsome, elegant present, to 

Mrs. B , and for my remaining volume of P. Pindar. — Peter 

is a delightful fellow, and a first favourite of mine. 1 am much 
pleased with your idea of publishing a collection of our songs in 
octavo with etchings. I am extremely willing to lend every assist- 
ance in my power. The Irish airs I shall cheerfully undertake the 
task of finding verses for. 

I have already, you know, equipped three with words, and the 
other day I strung up a kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian me- 
lody, which I admire much. 

HEY FOR A LASS WF A TOCHER. 
Tone — " Balinamona Ora" 

Awa wi* your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms; 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi' the weelstockit farms. 

CHORUS. 

Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, 
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher ; the nice yellow guineas for me. 

Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows, 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes, 
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes. 

Then, hey, &c. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when possest; 
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest, 
The langer ye hae them — the mair they're carest. 

Then, hey, &c. 

If this will do, you have now four of my Irish engagement. In 
my by- past songs, 1 dislike one thing; the name Chloris— I meant 
it as the fictitious name of a certain lady ; but, on second thoughts, 
it is a high incongruity to have a Greek appellation to a Scottish 
pastoral ballad.— Of this, and some things else, in my next : I have 
more amendments to propose. — What you once mentioned of 
" flaxen locks" is just : they cannot enter into an elegant descrip- 
tion of beauty.— Of this also again.— God bless you !* 

No. LXXXIY. 

MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

April, 1796. 
Your " Hey for a lass wi' a tocher" is a most excellent song, and 
with you the subject is something new indeed. It is the first time 
I have seen you debasing the god of soft desire into an amateur of 
acres and guineas. 

* Our poet never explained what name be ttouia bays jmtetitute4 for, CWojis.^ 



CORRESPONDENCE^ 557 

I am happy to find you approve of my proposed octavo edition* 
Allan has designed and etched about twenty plates, and I am to 
have my choice of them for that work. Independently of the 
Hogarthian humour with which they abound, they exhibit the 
character and costume of the Scottish peasantry with inimitable 
felicity. In this respect he himself says, they will far exceed the 
acquatinta plates he did for the " Gentle Shepherd," because, in the 
etching, he sees clearly what he is doing ; but not so with the 
acquatinta, which he could not manage to his mind. 

The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely more characteristic and 
natural, than the Scottish figures in those etchings. 



No. LXXXY. 

MK. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

April, 179^. 
Alas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some time ere I tune my 
lyre again ! " By Babel streams I have sat and wept," almost ever 
since 1 wrote you last ; I have only known existence by the pres- 
sure of the heavy hand of sickness ; and have counted time by the 
repercussions of pain ! Rheumatism, cold, and fever, have formed 
to me a terrible combination. I close my eyes in misery, and open 
them without hope. I look on the vernal day, and say with poor 
Fergusson — 

Say wherefore has an indulgent heaven 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given ? 

This will be delivered to you by a Mrs. Hyslop, landlady of the 
Globe tavern here, which for these many years has been my howf, 
and where our friend Clarke and I have had many a merry squeeze. 
I am highly delighted with Mr. Allan's etchings. Wood and mar- 
ried and a* is admirable 1 The grouping is beyond all praise. The 
expression of the figures, conformable to the story in the ballad, is 
absolutely faultless perfection. I next admire TurnimspiJce. What 
I like least is, Jenny said to Jochie. Besides the female being in 
her appearance ■ • • * if you take her stooping into the ac- 
count, she is at least two inches taller than her lover. Poor Cleg- 
horn ! I sincerely sympathize with him ! Happy I am to think 
that he has a well-grounded hope of health and enjoyment in this 
world. As for me — but that is a • • * • subject ! 



No. LXXXYI. 

MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

4th May, 1795. 
I need not tell you, my good sir, what concern the receipt of your 
last gave me, and how much I sympathize in your sufferings. But 
do not, I beseech you, give yourself up to despondency, nor speak 
the language of despair. The vigour of your constitution, I trust, 
will soon set you on your feet again ; and then, it is to be hoped, 
you \*ill see the wisdom and the necessity of taking due care of a 
life so valuable to your family, to your friends, and to the world. 

Trusting that your next will bring agreeable accounts of your 
c onvalescence, and returning good spirits, I remain, with sincere 
egard, yours. 



« 



558 burns' works* 

P.S.— Mrs. Hyslop, I doubt not, delivered the gold seal to you in 
good condition. 

No. LXXXVII. 

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSONS 

My Dear Sir, 
I okce mentioned to you an air which I have long admired, Here's a 
health to them that's awa, hiney, but I forget if you took any notice of 
it. I have just been trying to suit it with verses ; and I beg leave 
to recommend the air to your attention once more. I have only 
begun it. 

CHORUS. 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 

Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 

And soft as the parting tear — Jessie ! 

Although thou maun never be mine, 

Although even hope is denied ! 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 

Than aught in the world beside - Jessie ! 
Here's a health, &c. 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, 

As, hopeless I muse on thy charms ; 
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 

For then I am look't in thy arms — Jessie ! 
Here's a health, &c. 

[uess by the dear angel smile, 
guess by the love-rolling e'e ; 
But why urge the tender confession 
'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree — Jessie ! 
Here's a health, &c* 



No. LXXXVIII. 

MR. BURNS to MR, THOMSON. 

This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, a young fellow of uncommon 
merit. As he will be a day or two in town, you will have leisure, 
if you chose, to write me by him ; and if you have a spare half 
hour to spend with him, I shall place your kindness to my account. 
I have no copies of the songs I have sent you, and I have -taken a 
fancy to review them all, and possibly may mend some of them ; 
so when you have complete leisure, I will thank you for either the 
originals or copies.+ I had rather be the author of five well written 
songs, than of ten otherwise. I have great hopes that the genial 
influence of the approaching summer will set me to rights, but as 
yet I cannot boast of returning health. I have now reason to be- 
lieve that my complaint is a flying gout : a sad business ! 

* In the letter to Mr. Thomson, the three first stanzas only are given, and Mr. 
Thomson supposed our poet had never gone farther. Among his MSS. was, how- 
ever, found the fourth stanza, which completes this exquisite song, the last finished 
offspring of his muse. 

t It is needless to say, that this revisal Burns did not live to perform. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 559 

Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and remember me to him. 
This should have been delivered to you a month ago, I am still 
very poorly, but should like much to hear from you. 



No. LXXXIX. 
MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. 

12th July, 1796. 

After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to 
implore you for five pounds. A cruel of a haber- 
dasher, to whom I owe an account, taking it into his head that I 
am dying, has commenced a process, and will infallibly put me into 
jail. Do, for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by return of 
post. Forgive me this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail ha ve 
made me half distracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously ; fo r, 
upon returning health, 1 hereby promise and engage to furnish you 
with five pounds' worth of the neatest song genius you have seen. 
I tried my hand on Rothiemurchie this morning. The measure is 
so difficult, that it is impossible to infuse much genius into the 
lines. They are on the other side. Forgive, forgive me ! 

SONG. 
Tune— " Rothiemurchie. " 
Fairest maid on Devon banks, 

Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou wert wont to do % 

Full well thou knowest I love thee, dear, 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear ! 
O did not love exclaim, " Forbear ! 
Nor use a faithful lover so." 
Fairest maid, &c. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Thy wonted smiles, let me share ; 
And by thy beauteous self I swear, 
No love but thine my heart shall know. 
Fairest maid, &c* 



NO. XC. 

MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. 

My Dear Sir, Uth July, 17$6*. 

Ever since I received your melancholy letter by Mrs. Hyslop, I 

have been ruminating in what manner I could endeavour to alle- 

* These verses, and the letter enclosing them, are written in a character that 
marks the very feeble state of their author. Mr. Syme is of opinion that he could 
not have been in any danger of a jail at Dumfries, where certainly he had many 
firm friends, nor under any necessity of imploring aid from Edinburgh. But 
about this time his mind began to be at times unsettled, and the horrors of a jail 
perpetually haunted his imagination. He died on the 22d of this month. 



1 



560 



BtlRNS* WORKf. 



viate your sufferings. Again and again I thought of a pecuniary 
offer, but the recollection of one of your letters on this subject, and 
the fear of offending your independent spirit, checked my resolu- 
tion. I thank you heartily, therefore, for the frankness of your 
letter of the 11th, and with great pleasure inclose a draft for the 
very sum I proposed sending. Would 1 were the Chancellor of the 
Exchequer but for one day, for your sake. 

Pray, my good sir, is it not possible for you to muster a volume 
of poetry? If too much trouble to you in the present state of 
your health, some literary friend might be found here, who would 
select and arrange from your manuscripts, and take upon him the 
task of Editor. In the mean time it could be advertised to be pub- 
lished by subscription. Think of this, my dear Burns, and do not 
reckon me intrusive with my advice. You are too well convinced of 
the respect and friendship I bear you, to impute any thing I say to 
an unworthy motive. Yours, faithfully. 

The verses to " Kothiemurchie" will answer finely. 1 am happy to 
see you can still tune your lyre. 



APPENDIX. 



It may gratify curiosity to know some particulars of the history of 
the preceding Poems, on which the celebrity of our Bard has been, 
hitherto founded : and with this view the following extract is 
made from a letter of Gilbert Burns, the brother of our Poet, 
and his friend and confidant from his earliest years. 



Dear Sir, Mossgiel, 2nd April, 1798. 

Your letter of the 14th of March. I received in due 
course, but, from the hurry of the season, have been hitherto hin- 
dered from answering it. I will now try to give you what satisfac- 
tion I can in regard to the particulars you mention. I cannot pre- 
tend to be very accurate in respect to the dates of the poems, but 
none of them, except " Winter, a Dirge," (which was a juvenile pro- 
duction,) " the Death and Dying Words of poor Mailie," and some of 
the songs, were composed before the year 1784. The circumstances 
of the poor sheep were pretty much as he has described them ; he 
had, partly by way of frolic, bought a ewe and two lambs from a 
neighbour, and she was tethered in a held adjoining the house at 
Lochlie. He and I were going out with our teams, and our two 
younger brothers to drive for us, at mid-day, when Hugh Wilson, 
a curious looking awkward boy, clad in plaiding, came to us with 
much anxiety in his face, with the information that the ewe 
had entangled herself in the tether, and was lying in the ditch. 
Robert was much tickled with Hughoc's appearance and postures 
on the occasion. Poor Mailie was set to rights, and when we re- 
turned from the plough in the evening, he repeated to me her 
Death and Dying words pretty much in the way they now stand. 

Among the earliest of his poems was the " Epistle to Davie." 
Robert often composed without a regular plan. When any thing 
made a strong impression on his mind, so as to rouse it to poetic 
exertion, he would give way to the impulse, and embody tb<* thought 
in rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to please him, he 
would then think of proper introductory, connecting, and conclud- 
ing stanzas ; hence the middle of a poem was often first produced. 
It was, I think, in summer, 1784, when in ^e interval of harder 
labour, he and I were weeding in the garden (kailyard,) that he re- 
peated to me the principal part of this epistle. I believe the first 
idea of Robert's becoming an author was started on this occasion. 
I was much pleased with the epistle, and said to him I was of opi- 
nion it would bear being printed, and that it would be well re- 
ceived by people of taste ; that I thought it at least equal, if not 
superior, to many of Allan Ramsay's epistles, and that the merit of 
these, and much other Scotch poetry, seemed to consist principally 
in the knack of the expression — but here, there was a strain of in- 
teresting sentiment, and the Scotticism of the language scarcely 
2 A 5 



I 



562 APPENDIX. 

seemed affected, but appeared to be the natural language of the 
poet; that, besides, there was certainly some novelty in a poet 
pointing out the consolations that were in store for him when he 
should go a-begging. Robert seemed very well pleased with my 
criticism ; and we talked of sending it to some magazine, but as 
this plan afforded no opportunity of knowing how it would take, 
the idea was dropped. 

It was, I think, in the winter following, as we were going toge- 
ther with carts for coal to the family fire (and I could yet point 
out the particular spot), that the author first repeated to me the 
" Address to the Deil." The curious idea of such an address was 
suggested to him, by running over his mind the many ludicrous 
accounts and representations we have, from various quarters, of 
this august personage. " Death and Dr. Hornbook/' though not 
published in the Kilmarnock edition, was produced early in the 
year 1785. The schoolmaster of Tarbolton parish, to eke up the 
scanty subsistence allowed to that useful class of men, had set up 
a shop of grocery goods. Having accidentally fallen in with some 
medical books, and become most hobby-horsically attached to the 
study of medicine, he had added the sale of a few medicines to his 
little trade. He had got a shop-bill printed, at the bottom of 
which, overlooking his own incapacity, he had advertised, that 
" Advice would be given in common disorders at the shop, gratis." 
Robert was at a mason-meeting, in Tarbolton, when the rt Dominie" 
unfortunately made too ostentations a display of his medical skill. 
As he parted in the evening from this mixture of pedantry and 
physic, at the place where he describes his meeting with Death, 
one of those floating ideas of apparition, he mentions in his letter 
to Dr. Moore, crossed his mind ; this set him to work for the rest 
of the way home. These circumstances he related when he re- 
peated the verses to me next afternoon, as I was holding the plough, 
and he was letting the water off the field beside me. The " Epistle 
to John Lapraik" was produced exactly on the occasion described 
by the author. He says in that poem, "On fasten e'en he had a 
rockin'" (p. 36f). I believe he has omitted the word rocking in 
the glossary. It is a term derived from those primitive times, 
when the country-women employed their spare hours in spinning 
on the rock, or distaff. This simple instrument is a very portable 
one, and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a neigh- 
bour's house ; hence the phrase of going a- rocking, or with the 
rock. As the connection the phrase had with the implement was 
forgotten when the rock gave way to the spinning-wheel, the 
phrase came to be used by both sexes on social occasions, and men 
talk of going with their rocks as well as women. 

It was at one of these roclrings at our house, when we had twelve 
or fifteen young people with their rods, that Lapraik's song, begin- 
ning — " When I upon thy bosom lean," was sung, and we were in- 
formed who was the author. Upon this Robert wrote his first 
epistle to Lapraik ; and his second in reply to his answer. The 
verses to the " Mouse and Mountain Daisy" were composed on the 
occasions mentioned, and while the author was holding the plough : 
I could point out the particular spot where each was composed. 
Holding the plough was a favourite situation with Robert for poetic 



compositions, and some of his best verses Were produced while he 
was at that exercise. Several of the poems were produced for the 
purpose of bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the author. 
He used to remark to me, that he could not conceive a more mor- 
tifying picture of human life, than a man seeking work. In cast- 
ing about in his mind how this sentiment might be brought for- 
ward, the elegy, "Man was made to Mourn," was composed. Ro- 
bert had frequently remarked to me, that he thought there was 
something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, " Let us worship 
God," used by a decent sober head of a family introducing family 
worship. To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted 
for the " Cotter's Saturday Night." The hint of the plan, and title 
of the poem, were taken from Fergusson's " Farmer's Ingle." When 
Robert had not some pleasure in view in which I was not thought 
fit to participate, we used frequently to walk together when the 
weather was favourable on the Sunday afternoons (those precious 
breathing-times to the labouring part of the community), and en- 
joyed such Sundays as would make one regret to see their number 
abridged. It was in one of these walks that I first had the pleasure 
of hearing the author repeat the " Cotter's Saturday Night." I do 
not recollect to have read or heard any thing by which I was more 
highly electrified. The fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth, 
thrilled with peculiar ecstasy through my soul. I mention this to 
you, that you may see what hit the taste of unlettered criticism. I 
should be glad to know, if the enlightened mind and refined taste 
of Mr. Roscoe, who has borne such honourable testimony to this 
poem, agrees with me in the selection. Fergusson, in his M Hallow 
Fair" of Edinburgh, I believe, likewise furnished a hint of the title 
and plan of the "Holy Fair." The farcical scene the poet there de- 
scribes was often a favourite field of his observation, and the most 
of the incidents he mentions had actually passed before his eyes. 
It is scarcely necessary to mention, that the " Lament" was com- 
posed on that unfortunate passage in his matrimonial history, which 
I have mentioned in my letter to Mrs, Dunlop, after the first dis- 
traction of his feelings had a little subsided. " The Tale of Twa 
Dogs" was composed after the resolution of publishing was nearly 
taken. Robert had had a dog, which he called Luath, that was a 
great favourite. The dog had been killed by the wanton cruelty 
of some person the night before my father's death. Robert said to 
me, that he should like to confer such immortality as he could be- 
stow upon his old friend Luat7i, and that he had a great mind to 
introduce something into the book under the title of " Stanzas to 
the Memory of a quadruped Friend :" but this plan was given up 
for the tale as it now stands. Ccesar was merely the creature of 
the poet's imagination, created for the purpose of holding chat with 
his favourite Luath. The first time Robert heard the spinet played 
upon was at the house of Dr. Lawrie, then minister of the parish 
of Loudon now in Glasgow, having given up the parish in favour 
of his son. Dr. Lawrie has several daughters ; one of them played ; 
the father and mother led down the dance ; the rest of the sisters, 
the brother, the poet, and the other guests, mixed in it. It was a 
delightful family scene for our poet, then lately introduced to the 
world. His mind was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the 



I 



564 APPENDIX. 

stanzas, p. 852, were left in the room where he slept. It was to 
Dr. Lawrie that Dr. Blacklock's letter was addressed, which my 
brother, in his letter to Dr. Moore, mentions as the reason of his 
going to Edinbnrgh. 

When my father feued his little property near Alloway-Kirk, 
the wall of the church-yard had gone to ruin, and cattle had freo 
liberty of pasture in it. My father, with two or three. other neigh- 
bours, joined in an application to the town council of Ayr, who 
were superiors of the adjoining land, for liberty to rebuild it, and 
raised by subscription a sum for enclosing this ancient cemetery 
with a wall ; hence he came to consider it as his burial place, and 
and we learned that reverence for it people generally have for the 
burial-place of their ancestors. My brother was living in Ellisland, 
when Captain Grose, on his peregrinations through Scotland, staid 
some time at Oarse- house in the neighbourhood, with Captain Ro- 
bert Riddel of Glenriddel, a particular friend of my brother's. The 
Antiquarian and the Poet were " Unco pack and thick thegither.'' 
Robert requested of Captain Grose, when he should come to Ayr- 
shire, that he would make a drawing of Alloway-Kirk, as it was the 
burial-place of his father, and where he himself had a sort of claim 
to lay down his bones when they should be no longer serviceable to 
him ; and added, by way of encouragement, that it was the scene 
of many a good story of witches and apparitions, of which he knew 
the Captain was very fond. The Captain agreed to the request, 
provided the poet would furnish a witch story, to be printed along 
with it. " Tarn o' Shanter'' was produced on this occasion, and was 
first published in " Grose's Antiquities of Scotland." 

The poem is founded on a traditional story. The leading cir- 
cumstances of a man riding home very late from Ayr, in a stormy 
night, his seeing a light in Alloway Kirk, his having the curiosity 
to look in, his seeing a dance of witches, with the devil playing on 
the bag pipe to them, the scanty covering of one of the witches, 
which made him so far forget himself as to cry — "Weel loupen, 
short sark F — with the melancholy catastrophe of the piece ; it is 
all a true story, and can be well attested by many respectable old 
people in that neighbourhood. 

I do not at present recollect any circumstances respecting the 
other poems, that could be at all interesting ; even some of those I 
have mentioned, I am afraid, may appear trifling enough, but you 
will only make use of what appears to you of consequence. 

The following poems in the first Edinburgh edition were not in 
that published in Kilmarnock. "Death and Dr. Hornbook;" "The 
B i s of Ayr;" "The Calf;" (the poet had been with Mr. Gavin 
Hamilton in the morning, who said jocularly to him when he was 
going to church, in allusion to the injunction of some parents to 
their children, that he must be sure to bring a note of the sermon 
at midday; this address to the Reverend Gentleman on his text 
was accordingly produced;) "The Ordination;" "The Address to 
the Unco Guid ;" "Tarn Samson's Elegy;" "A Winter Night;' 
"Stanzas on the same occasion as the preceding prayer;" "Verses 
left at a Reverend Friend's boiu^e ;" "The first Psalm;" "Prayer 
under the pressure of violent anguish;" "The first six Verses of 
the ninetieth Paslm ;" "Verses to Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems;' 



APPENDIX^ 565 

"To a Haggis;" "Address to Edinburgh ;" "John Barleycorn;" 
" When Guildford Guid ;" "Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows;" 
"Green grow the Rashes;" "Again rejoicing Nature sees;" "The 
gloomy Night;" "No Churchman am 1." 

If you have never seen the first edition, it will, perhaps, not be 
amiss to transcribe the preface, that you may see the manner in 
which the Poet made his first awe-struck approach to the bar of 
public judgment. 

Preface to the first Edition of Burns* Poems, published at 

Kilmarnock. 

"The following Trifles are not the production of the poet, who 
with all the advantages of learned art, and perhaps, amid the ele- 
gances and idlenesses of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, 
with an eye to Theocritus or Yirgil, To the author of this, these 
and other celebrated names, their countrymen, are, at least in their 
original language, " a fountain shut up, and a book sealed." Un- 
acquainted with the necessary requisites for conmencing poet by 
rule, he sings the sentiments and manners, he felt and saw in him: 
self and his rustic compeers around hjm, in his and their native 
language. Though a rhymer from his t ~liest years, at least from 
the earliest impulses of the softer passions, it was not till very 
lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality of friendship, 
awakened his vanity so far as to make him think any thing of his 
worth showing ; and none of the following works were composed 
with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little crea- 
tions of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious 
life ; to transcribe the various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the 
hopes, the fears, in his own breast ; to find some kind of counter- 
poise to the struggles of a world, always an alien scene, a task un- 
couth to the poetical mind — these were his motives for courting the 
muses, and in these he found poetry to be its own reward." 

"Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he 
does, it with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the rhyming 
tribe, that even he, an obscure, nameless Bard, shrinks aghast at the 
thought of being branded as — an impertinent blockhead, obtruding 
his nonsence on the world ; and, because he can make a shift to 
jingle a few doggerel Scotch rhymes together, looking upon himself 
as a poet of no small consequence forsooth. 

" It is an observation of that celebrated poet Shenstone, whose 
divine elegies do honour to our nation, and our species, that ' Hu- 
mility has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raised 
one to fame !' If any critic catches at the word " genius,'' the au- 
thor tells him once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself as 
possessed of some poetic abilities, otherwise his publishing in the 
manner he has done, would be a manoeuvre beneath the lowest and 
worst character, which he hopes his worst enemy will never give 
him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of 
the poor unfortunate Fergusson, he with equal unaffected sincerity, 
declares, that even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the 
-most ditt;mt pretensions These two justly admired Scotch poets 
he h*fe often had in his eye in the fallowing pieces ; but rather with 
a view to kindle at their flame for servile imitation. 



I 






566 APPENDIX. 

"To his Subscribers the Author returns his most sincere thanks. 
Not the mercenary bow over the counter, but the heart-throbbing 
gratitude of the bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence 
and friendship, for gratifying him, if he deserves it, in that dearest 
wish of every poetic bosom — to be distinguished. If he begs his 
readers, particularly the learned and the polite, who may honour 
him with a perusal, that they will make every allowance for educa- 
tion and circumstances of life; but, if after a fair, candid, and im- 
partial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dullness and nonsense, 
let him be done by as he would in that case do by others — let him 
be condemned, without mercy, to contempt and oblivion." 



I am, dear Sir, 
Your most obedient humble servant, 

GILBERT BURNS. 
Db. Currib, Liverpool. 

To this history of the poems which are contained in this volume, 
it may be added, that our author appears to have made little alter- 
ation in them after their original composition, except in some few 
instances, where considerable additions have been introduced. Af- 
ter he had attracted the notice of the public by his first edition, 
various criticisms were offered him on the peculiarities of his style, 
as well as of his sentiments, and some of these which remain among 
his manuscripts, are by persons of great taste and judgment. Some 
few of these criticisms he adopted, but the far greater part he re- 
jected ; and, though something has by this means been lost in point 
of delicacy and correctness, yet a deeper impression is left of the 
strength and originality of his genius. The firmness of our poet's 
character, arising from a just confidence in his own powers, may, 
in part, explain his tenaciousness of his peculiar expressions ; but 
it may be in some degree accounted for also, by the circumstances 
under which the poems were composed. Burns did not, like men of 
genius born under happier auspices, retire, in the moment of inspi- 
ration, to the silence and solitude of his study, and commit his 
verses to paper as arranged themselves in his mind. Fortune did 
not afford him this indulgence. It was during the toils of daily 
labour that his fancy exerted itself; the muse, as he himself informs 
us, found him at the plough. In this situation, it was necessary to 
fix his verses on his memory, and it was many days, nay week, af- 
ter a poem was finished, before it was written down. During all 
this time, by frequent repetition, the association between the 
thought and the expression was confirmed, and the impartiality of 
taste with which written language is reviewed and retouched after 
it has faded on the memory, could not in such instances be exerted. 
The original manuscripts of many of his poems are preserved, and 
they differ in nothing material from the last printed edition. 
Some few variations may be noticed. 

In the "Author's earnest Cry and Prayer," after the stanaas, p. 
288, beginning, 

Erskine, a spunkie Norland Billie, 

there appears, in his book of manuscripts, the following 



APPENDIX. 567 

Thee, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented 

If Bardies e'er are represented : 

I ken if that your sword were wanted 

Ye'd lend your hand, 
But when there's ought to say anent it, 

Ye're at a stand. 

Sodger Hugh is evidently the present Earl of Eglinton, then Colo- 
nel Montgomery of Coilsfield, and representing in Parliament the 
county of Ayr. Why this was left out in printing does not appear. 
The noble Earl will not be sorry to see this notice of him, familiar 
though it be, by a bard whose genius he admired, and whose fate 
he lamented. 

2. In "The Address to the Deil," the seventh stanzas, in p. 309, 
ran originally thus : 

Lang syne in Eden's happy scene, 
When strappin' Adam's days were green, 
And Eve was like my bonnie Jean, 

My dearest part, 
A dancing' sweet, young, handsome quean, 

Wi' guiltless heart. 

3. In "The Elegy on Poor Mailie," the second stanzas, in p. 312, 
beginning, 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 

was, at first, as follows : — 

She was nae get o' runted rams, 
Wi' woo' like goats, and legs like trams 
She was the flower o' Fairlie lambs, 
A famous breed : 
Now Robin, greetin' chows the hams 
0' Mailie dead. 

It were a pity that the Fairlie lambs should lose the honour onc e 
intended them. 

4. But the chief variations are found in the poems here intro- 
duced, for the first time, in the edition in two volumes small oc- 
tavo, published in 1792. Of the poem written in Friars Carse 
Hermitage, there are several editions, and one of these* has no- 
thing in common with the printed poem but the four first lines. 
The poem that is published, which was his second effort on the 
subject, received considerable alterations in printing. 

Instead of the six lines beginning, 

Say man's true genuine estimate, 

in manuscript the following are inserted, 

Say the criterion of their fate, 
Th' important query of their state, 
Is not, part thou high or low 1 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow % 
Wert thou cottager or king? 
Prince or peasant ? — no such thing. 

5. The Epistle to R. G. of F., Esq., that is, to R. Graham of Fin- 
try, Esq., also underwent considerable alterations, as may be col- 

* This is given in the Correspondence. 



I 






568 APPENDIX. 

lected from the volume of Correspondence. This style of poetry 
was new to our poet, and though he was fitted to excel in it, it 
cost him more trouble than his Scottish poetry. On the contrary. 
Tarn o' Shanter seems to have issued perfect from the author's 
brain. The only considerable alteration made on reflection, is the 
omission of four lines, which had been inserted after the poem was 
finished, at the end of the dreadful catalogue of the articles found 
on the " haly table," and which appeared in the first edition of the 
poem, printed separately. They came after the last line page 398, 

Which even to name would be unlawfu', 
and are as follows — 

Three lawyers' tongues tura'd inside out, 
Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout, 
And priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck ; 
Lay stinking vile in every neuk. 

These lines, which, independent of other objections, interrupt and 
destroy the emotions of terror which the preceding description had 
excited, were very properly left out of the printed collection, by the 
advice of Mr. Fraser Tytler ; to which Burns seem to have paid 
some deference. 

6. The Address to the Shade of Thomson, page 391, began in the 
first manuscript copy in the following manner : — 

While cold eyed Spring, a virgin coy, 

Unfolds her verdant mantle sweet, 
Or pranks the sod in frolic joy, 

A carpet for her youthful feet : 
While Summer, with a matron's grace, 

Walks stately in the cooling shade, 
And oft delighted loves to trace 

The progress of the spiky blade : 
While Autmmn, benefactor kind, 

With age's honours clad, 
Surveys, with self-approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fed, kc. 

By the alteration in the printed poem, it may be questioned whe- 
ther the poetry is much improved ; the poet, however, has found 
means to introduce the shades of Dryburgh, the residence of the 
Earl of Buchan, at who?e request these verses were written. 

These observations might be extended, but what are already of- 
fered will satisfy curiosity, and there is nothing of any importance 
that could be added. 



GLOSSARY. 



The ch and p7i have always the gutteral sound. The sound of the 
English diphthong oo t is commonly spelled ou. The French u, a 
sound which often occurs in the Scottish language, is marked oo, 
or ui. The a in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a 
diphthong, or followed by an e mute after a single consonant, 

. sounds generally like the broad English a in wall. The Scot- 
tish diphtong ce, very often, sound like the French e masculine. 
The Scottish diphthong cy, sounds like the Latin ei. 

aught, in all my possession 
Auld lang syne, olden time 
Auld, old 

Auldfarran, or, auld f arrant, sa- 
gacious, cunning, prudent 
Ava, at all 
Awa', away 
Awfu', awful 

Awn, the beard of barley, &c. 
Awnie, bearded 
Ayont, beyond 

B 
Ba', ball 

Backets, ash boards 
Backlins, coming ; returning 
Back, returning 
Bad, did bid 
Baide, endured, did stay 
Baggie, the belly 
Bainie, having large bones, stout 
Bairn, a child 
Bairntime, a family of children, 

a brood 
Baith, both 
Ban, to swear 
Bane, bone 

Bang, to beat ; to strive 
Bardie, diminutive of bard 
Barefit, barefooted 
Barmie, of, or like barm 
Batch, a crew, a gang 
Batts, bots 
Baudrons, a cat 
Bauld, bold 
Bawk, bank 

Bawsn't, having a white stripe 
down the face 



A', All 

Aback, away, aloof 
Abeigh, at a shy distance 
Aboon, above, up 
Abread, abroad, in sight 
Abreed, in breadth 
Addle, putrid water, &c. 
Ae, one 

Aff, off; aff lOof, unpremeditated 
Afore, before 
Aft, oft 
Aften, often 

Agley, off the right line ; wrong 
Aiblins, perhaps 
Ain, own 

Airle-penny, Airles, earnest mo- 
ney 
Aim, iron 
Aith, an oath 
Aiver, an old horse 
Aizle, a hot cinder 
Alake, alas 
Alane, alone 
Akwart, awkward 
Amaist, almost 
Amang, among 
An', and ; if 
Ance, once 
Ane, one and 
Anent, over, against 
Anither, another 
Ase, ashes 

Asklent, asquint ; aslant 
Asteer, abroad ; stirring 
Athart, thwart 
Aught, possession ; as, In a 1 my 



■'/ 



570 



aLOS»Alt*. 



Be, to let be ; to give over 

Bear, barley 

Beastie, diminutive of beast 

Beet, to add fuel to fire 

Beld, bald 

Bely ve, by and bye 

Ben, into the spence or parlour; 

a spence 
Benlomond, a noted mountain in 

Dumbartonshire 
Bethankit, grace after meat 
Beuk, a book 
Bicker, a kind ef wooden dish ; a 

short race 
Bie, or Bield, shelter 
Bien, wealthy, plentiful 
Big, to build 

Biggin, building ; a house 
Biggit, built 
Bill, a bull 

Billie, a brother ; a young fellow 
Bing, a heap of grain, potatoes, 

&c. 
Birk, birch 
Birken-shaw, Birchen-wood-shaw 

a small wood 
Birkie, a clever fellow 
Birring, the noise of partridges, 

&c. when they spring 
Bit, crisis, nick of time 
Bizz, a bustle, to buzz 
Blastie, a shrivelled dwarf; a 

term of contempt 
Blastit, blasted 
Blate, bashful, sheepish 
Blather, bladder 
Bladd, a flat piece; any thing; 

to slap 
Blaw, to blow, to boast 
Bleerit, bleared, sore with rheum 
Bleert and blin', bleared and 

blind. 
Bleezing, blazing 
Blellum, an idle, talking fellow 
Blether, to talk idly ; nonsense 
Blink, a little while : a smiling 

look ; to shine by fits 
Blinker, a term of contempt 
Blinkin, smirking 
Blue-gown, one of those beggars 

who get annually, on the sove- 
reign's birth-day, a blue cloak 

or gown, with a badge 



Bluid, blood 

Bluntie, a sniveller, a stupid 
person 

Blype, a shred, a large piece 

Bock, to vomit, to gush inter- 
mittently 

Bodle, a small gold coin 

Bogles, spirits, hobgoblins 

Bonnie or bonny, handsome 

Bonnock, a kind of thick cake 
of bread, a small jannock, or 
loaf made of oatmeal 

Boord, a board 

Boortree, the shrub elder ; plant- 
ed much of old in hedges of 
barn- yards, &c 

Boost, behaved, must needs 

Bore, a hole in the wall 

Botch, an angry tumour 

Bousing, drinking 

Bow-kail, cabbage 

Bowt, bended, crooked 

Brackens, fern 

Brae, a declivity ; a precipice 

Braid, broad 

Braingd't, reeled forward 

Braik, a kind of harrow 

Braindge, to rush rashly for- 
ward 

Brak, broke, made insolvent 

Branks, a kind of wooden curb 
for horses 

Brash, a sudden illness 

Brats, coarse clothes, rags, &c 

Brattle, a short race, hurry fury; 

Braw, fine, handsome 

Brawly, or brawlie, very well 

Braxie, a morbid sheep 

Breastie, diminutive of breast 

Breastit, did spring up or for* 
ward 

Breckan, fern 

Breef, an irresistible spell 

Breeks, breeches 

Brent, smooth 

Brewin', brewing 

Brie, juier, liquid 

Brig, a bridge 

Brunstane, brimstone 
Brisket, the breast, the bosom 
Brither, a brother 
Brock, a badger 
Brogue, a hum, a trick 



GLOSSARY. 



571 



Broose, broth ,* a race at country 
weddings, who shall first reach 
the bridegroom's house on re- 
turning from the church 

Browster-wives, ale-house-wives 

Brugh, a bnrgh 

Bruzlzie, a broil, a combustion 

Brunt, did burn, burnt 

Brust, to burst ; burst 

Buchan-bullers,the boiling of the 
sea among the rocks of Buchan 

Buckskin, an inbahitant of Vir- 
ginia 

Bught, a pen 

Bughtin-time, the time of collect- 
ing the sheep in the pens to be 
milked 

Buirdly, stout made ; broad made 

Bumclock, a humming beetle 
that flies in the summer even- 
ings 

Bumming, humming as bees 

Bummle, to blunder 

Bunker, a window-seat 

Burdies, diminutive of birds 

Bure, did bear 

Burn, water, a rivulet 

Burnewin, i. e. burn the wind ; 
a blacksmith 

Burnie, diminutive of burn 

Buskie, bushey 

Buskit, dressed 

Busks, dresses 

Bussle, a bustle; to bustle 

Buss, shelter 

But, bot, with : without 

But an* ben, the country kitchen 
and parlour 

By himsel, lunatic, distracted 

Byke, a bee-hive 

Byre, a cow-stable ; a sheep-pen 
C 

C A', to call, to name ; to drive 

Ca't; or ca'd called, driven ; calv- 
ed 

Cadger, a carrier 

Cadie, or Caddie, a person: a 
young fellow 

Caff, chaff 

Caird, a tinker 

Cairn, a loose heap of stones 

Calf- ward, a small enclosure for 
calves 



Callan, a boy 

Caller, fresh ; sound ; refreshing. 

Canie, or cannie, gentle, mild ; 

dexterous. 
Cannilie, dexterously ; 
Cantie, or canty, cheerful, merry 
Cantrip, a charm, a spell. 
Capestane, cope-stone ; keystone 
Careerin, cheerfully 
Carl, an old man 
Carlin, a stout old woman 
Cartes, cards 
Caudron, a caldron 
Cauk and keel, chalk and red clay 
Cauld, cold 

Caup, a wooden drinking vessel 
Cesses, taxes 

Chanter, a part of a bagpipe 
Chap, a person, a fellow ; a blow 
Chaup, a stroke, a blow 
Cheekit, cheeked 
Cheep, a chirp ; to chirp 
Chiel, or cheel, a young fellow 
Chimla, or chimlie, a fire-grate, 

a fire place 
Chimla-lug, the fireside 
Chittering, shivering, trembling 
Chockin, choking 
Chow, to chew 
Chuffie, fat-faced 
Clachan, a small village about a 

church ; a hamlet 
Claise, or claes, clothes 
Claith, cloth 
Claivers, nonsense ; not speaking 

sense 
Clap, clapper of a mill 
Clarkit, wrote 
Clash, an idle tale, the story of 

the day 
Clatter, to tell idle stories; an 

idle story 
Claught, snatched at, laid hold 

of 
Claut, to clean ; to scrape 
Clavers, idle stories 
Claw, to scratch 
Cleed, to clothe 
Cleede, clothes 
Cleekit, having caught 
Clinkin, jerking ; clinking 
Clinkumbell, he who rings the 

church-bell 



* 



572 



GLOSSARY. 



I, 



» 



Clips, shears 

Clishmaclaver, idle conversation 

Clock, to hatch ; a beetle 

Clockin, hatching 

Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep &c 

Clootie, an old name for the 
Devil 

Clour, a bump or swelling after 
a blow 

Cluds, clouds 

Coaxin, wheedling 

Coble, a fishing boat 

Cockernony, a lock of hair tied 
upon a girl's head ; a cap 

Coft, bought 

Cog, a wood eh dish 

Coggie, diminutive of cog 

CoDa, from Kyle, a district of 
Ayrshire; so called, saith tradi- 
tion, from Coil, or Coilus, a 
Pictish monarch 

Collie, a general and sometimes a 
particular name for country 
curs 

Collieshangie, quarrelling, an up- 
roar 

Commaun, command 

Cood, the cud 

Coof, a blockhead ; a ninny 

Cookit, appeared and disappeared 
by fits 

Coost, did cast 

Coot, the ancle or foot 

Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish : 
— also, those fowls whose legs 
are clad with feathers are said 
to be cootie 

Corbies, a species of the crow 

Core, corps ; party ; clan 

Corn't, fed with oats 

Cotter, the inhabitant of a cot- 
house, or cottager 

Couthie, kind, loving 

Cove, a cave 

Co we, to terrify ; to keep under, 
to lop fright ; a branch of 
furze, broom, &c. 

Cowp, to barter ; to tumble over ; 
a gang 

Cowpit, tumbled 

Cowrin, cowering 

Cowt, a colt 

Cozie, snug 



Crabbit, crabbed, fretful 

Crack, conversation ; to converse 

Crackin, conversing 

Craft, or croft, a field near a 
house (in old husbandry) 

Craiks, cries or calls incessantly; 
a bird 

Crambo, clink, or crambo jingle, 
rhymes, doggrel verses 

Crank, the noise of an ungreased 
wheel 

Crankous, fretful, eaptious 

Cranreuch, the hoar frost 

Crap, a crop ; to crop 

Craw, a crow of a cock ; a rook 

Creel, a basket; to have one's 
wits in a creel, to be crazed ; 
to be fascinated 

Creepie-stool, the same as cutty- 
stool 

Cresshie, greasy 

Crood, or croud, to coo as a dove 

Croon, a hollow and continued 
moan ; to make a noise like 
the continued roar of a bull ; 
to hum a tune 

Crouchie, crook-backed 

Croose, cheerfully ; courageously 

Crowdie, a composition of oat- 
meal and boiled water, some- 
times from the broth of beef, 
mutton, &c. 

Crowdie- time, breakfast time 

Crowlin, crawling 

Crummock, a cow with crooked 
horns 

Crump, hard and brittle; spoken 
of bread 

Crunt, a blow on the head with 
a cudgel 

Cuif, a blockhead, a ninny 

Cummock, a short staff with a 
crooked head 

Curchie, a courtesy 

Curler, a player at a game on the 
ice, practised in Scotland, call- 
ed curling 

Curlie, curled, whose hair falls 
naturally in ringlets 

Curling, a well known game on 
the ice 

Curmurring, murmuring 

Curpin, the crupper 



GLOSSARY. 



573 



Cushat, the dove, or wood-pigeon 
Cutty, short ; a spoon broken in 

the middle 
Cutty-stool, the stool of repent- 
ance 

D. 
DADDIE; a father 
Damn, merriment ; foolishness 
Daft, merry, giddy ; foolish 
Daimen, rare, now and then; 
daimen icker, an ear of corn 
now and then 
Dainty, pleasant, good humoured 
Daise, daez, to stupify 
Dales, plains, valleys 
Darklins, darkling 
Daud, to thrash, to abuse 
Daur, to dare 
Daurt, dared 

Daurg, or daurk, a day's labour 
Davoc, David 
Dawd, a large piece 
Dawtit, or dawtet, fondled, ca- 
ressed 
Dearies, diminutive of dears 
Dearthfu', dear 
Deave, to deafen 
Deilma-care ! no matter! for all 
i that! 

Deleerit, delirious 
Descrive, to describe 
Dight, to wipe; to clean corn 

from chaff 
Ding, to worst, to push 
Dink, neat, tidy, trim 
Dinna, do not 
Dirl, a alight tremulous stroke 

or pain 
Dizen, or dizz'n, a dozen 
Doited, stupified, hebetated 
Dolt, stupified, crazed 
Donsie, unlucky 
Dool, sorrow; to sing dool, to 

lament, to mourn 
Doos, doves 
Dorty, saucy, nice 
Douce, or douse, sober, wise, pru- 
dent 
Doucely, soberly, prudently _ 
Dought, was or were able 
Doup, backside 

Doup-skelper, one that strikes 
the tail 



Dour and din, sullen and sallow 

Doure, stout, durable; sullen, 
stubborn 

Dow, am or are able, can 

DowfT, pithless, wanting force 

Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, 
&c. half asleep 

Downa, am or are not able cannot 

Doylt, stupid 

Dozent, stupified, impotent 

Drap, a drop ; to drop 

Draigle, to soil by trailing, to 
draggle among wet, &c. 

Dropping, dropping 

Draunting, drawling; of a slow 
enunciation 

Dreep, to ooze, to drop 

Dreigh, tedious, long about it 

Dribble, drizzling; slaver 

Drift, a drove 

Droddum, the breech 

Drone, part of a bagpipe 

Droop-rumpl't, that droops at the 
crupper 

Droukit, wet 

Drounting, drawling 

Drouth, thirst, drought 

Drucken, drunken 

Drumly, muddy 

Drummock, meal and water 

mixed in a raw state 
Drunt, pet, sour humour 
Dub, a small pond 
Duds, rags, clothes 
Duddie, ragged 

Dung, worsted ; pushed, driven 
Dunted, beaten, boxed 
Dush, to push as a ram, &c. 
Dusht, pushed by a ram, ox, &c 

E. 
E'E, the eye 
E'en, the eyes 
E'ening, evening 
Eerie, frighted, dreading spirits 
Eild, old age 
Elbuck, the elbow 
Eldritch, ghastly, frightful 
Eller, an elder, or church officer 
En', end 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh 
Eneugh, enough 
Especial, especially 
Ettle, to try, to attempt 



6U 



GLOSSARY. 



» 






Eydent, diligent 
F. 

FA', fall; lot; to fall 

Fa's, does fall ; water-falls 

Faddom't, fathomed 

Fae, a foe 

Faem, foam 

Faiket, unknown 

Fairn, a fairing ; a present 

Fallow, fellow 

Fand, did find 

Farl, a cake of oaten bread, &c 

Fash, trouble, care; to trouble, 
to care for 

Fasht, troubled 

Fasteren-e'en, Fasten's Even 

Fauld, a fold ; to fold 

Faulding, folding 

Faut, fault 

Faute, want, lack 

Fawsont, decent, seemly 

Feal, a field ; smooth 

Fearfu', frightful 

Feart, frighted 

Feat, neat, spruce 

Fecht, to fight 

Fechtin, fighting 

Feck, many, plenty 

Fecket, an under waistcoat with 
sleeves 

Feckfu', large, brawny, stout 

Feckless, puny, weak 

Feckly, weakly 

Feg, a fig 

Feide, feud, enmity 

Feirrie, stout, vigorous, healthy 

Fell, keen, biting : the flesh im- 
mediately under the skin; a 
field pretty level, on the side 
or top of a hill 

Fen, successful struggle, fight 

Fend, to live comfortably 

Ferlie, or ,ferley, to wonder ; a 
wonder ; a term of contempt 

Fetch, to pull by fits 

Fetch't, pulled intermittently 

Fidge, to fidget 

Fiel, soft, smooth 

Fient, fiend, a petty oath 

Fier, sound, healthy; a brother 

Fissle, to make a rustling noise ; 
to fidget : a bustle 

Fit, a foot 



Fittie-lan', the nearer horse of the 
hindmost pair in the plough 

Fizz, to make a hissing noise, 
like fermentation 

Flainen, flannel 

Fleech, to supplicate in a flat- 
tering manner 

Fleech'd, supplicated 

Fleechin, supplicating 

Fleesh, a fleece 

Fleg, a kick, a random stroke 

Flether, to decoy by fair words 

Fletherin, flattering 

Fley, to scare, to frighten 

Flichter, to flutter, as young 
nestlings when their dam ap- 



Flinders, shreds, broken pieces, 
splinters 

Flinging-tree, a piece of timber 
hung by way of partition be- 
tween two horses in a stable ; 
a flail 

Flisk, to fret at the yoke 

Flisked, fretted 

Flitter, to vibrate like the wings 
of small birds 

Flittering, fluttering, vibrating 

Flunkie, a servant in livery 

Fodgel, squat and plump 

Foord, a ford 

Forbears, forefathers 

Forbye, besides 

Forfairn, distressed, worn out 

Forfoughten, fatigued 

Forgather, to meet, to encounter 
with 

Forgie, to forgive 

Forjesket, jaded with fatigue 

Fother, fodder 

Fou, full, drunk 

Foughten, troubled, harassed 

Fouth, plenty, enough 

Fow, a bushel, &c, also a pitch- 
fork 

Free, from ; off 

Frammit, strange, estranged 
from, at enmity with 

Freath, froth 

Frien', friend 

Fu', full 

Fuel, the scut, or tail of the hare, 
cony, &c 



GLOSSARY. 



675 



Fuff, to blow intermittently 

Fuff't, did blow 

Funnie, full of merriment 

Fur, a furrow 

Furm, a form, bench 

Fyke, trifling cares : to piddle, to 
be in a fuss about trifles 

Fyle, to soil, to dirty 

Fyl't, soiled, dirtied. 
G. 

GAB, the mouth; to speak bold- 
ly, or pertly 

Gaberlunzie, an old man 

Gadsman, a ploughboy, the boy 
that drives the horses in the 
plough 

Gae, to go ; gaed, went ; gaen, or 
gane, gone; gaun, going 

Gaet, or gate, way, manner; road 

Gairs, triangular pieces of cloth 
sewed on the bottom of a 
gown, &c 

Gang, to go, to walk 

Gar, to make, to force to 

Gar*t, forced to 

Garten, a garter 

Gash, wise, sagacious ; talkative ; 
to converse 

Gashin, conversing 

Gaucy, jolly, large 

Gaud, a plough 

Gear, riches ; goods of any kind. 

Geek, to toss the head in wanton- 
ness or scorn 

Ged, a pike 

Gentles, great folks, gentry 

Genty, elegantly formed, neat 

Geordie, a guinea 

Get, a child, a young one 

Ghaist, a ghost 

Gie, to give; gied, gave; gien, 
given 

Giftie, diminutive of gift 

Giglets, playful girls 

Gillie, diminutive of gill 

Gilpey, a half grown, half in- 
formed boy or girl, a romping 
lad, a hoiden 

Gimmer, a ewe from one to two 
years old 

Gin, if ; against 

Gipsey, a young girl 



Girn, to grin, to twist the fea- 
tures in rage, agony, &c 

Girning, grinning 

Gizz, a periwig 

Glaiket, inattentive, foolish 

Glaive, a sword 

Gawky, half-witted, foolish, romp- 
ing 

Glaizie, glittering; smooth like 
glass 

Glaum, to snatch greedily 

Glaum'd, aimed, snatched 

Gleck, sharp, ready 

Gleg, sharp, ready 

Gleib, glebe 

Glen, a dale, a deep valley 

Gley, a squint; to squint; a-gley, 
off at a side, wrong. 

Glibgabbet, smooth and ready in 
speech 

Glint, to peep 

Glinted, peeped 

Glintin, peeping 

Gloamin, the twilight 

Glowr, to stare, to look ; a stare, 
a look 

Glowred, looked, stared 

Glunsh, a frown, a sour look 

Goavan, looking round with a 
strange, inquiring gaze; star- 
ing stupidly 

Gowan, the flower of the wild 
daisy, hawkweed, &c 

Gowany, daisied, abounding with 
daisies 

Gowd, gold 

Gowff, the game of Golf; to strike 
as the bat does the ball at golf 

GowfFd, struck 

Gowk, a cuckoo ; a term of con- 
tempt 

Gowl, to howl 

Grane, or grain, a groan; to 
groan 

Grain'd and grunted, groaned and 
grunted 

Graining, groaning 

Graip, a pronged instrument for 
cleaning stables 

Graith, accoutrements, furniture, 
dress, gear 

Grannie, grandmother 

Grape, to grope 



576 



GLOSSARY. 



Graipit, groped 

Grat, wept, shed tears 

Great, intimate, familiar 

Gree, to agree ; to bear the gree, 
to be decidedly victor 

Gree't, agreed 

Greet, to shed tears, to weep 

Greetin, crying, weeping 

Grippet, catched; seized 

Groat, to get the whistle of one's 
groat, to play a losing game 

Grousome, loathsomely grim 

Grozet, a gooseberry 

Grumph, a grunt; to grunt 

Grumphie, a sow 

Grun', ground 

Grunstane, a grindstone 

Gruntle, the phiz; a grunting 
noise 

Grunzie, mouth 

Grushie, thick; of a thriving 
growth 

Gude, the Supreme Being ; good 

Guid, good 

Guid-morning, good morrow 

Guid- e'en, good evening 

Guidman and guidwife, the mas- 
ter and mistress of the house ; 
young guidman, a man newly 
married 

Guid-willie, liberal ; cordial 

Guidfather, guidmother, father- 
in-law, and mother-in-law 

Gully, or gullie, a large knife 

Gumlie, muddy 

Gusty, tasteful 

HA', hall 

Ha'-Bible, the great Bible that 

lies in the hafl 
Hae, to have 

Haen, had, the participle 
Haet, fient haet, a petty oath of 

negation ; nothing 
Haffet, the temple, the side of 

the head 
Hafflins, nearly half, partly 
Hag, a scar, or gulf in mosses 

or moors 
Haggis, a kind of pudding boiled 

in the stomach of a cow or a 

sheep 
Hajn, to spare, to save 



Hain'd, spared 

Hairst, harvest 

Haith, a petty oath 

Haivers, nonsense, speaking 
without thought 

Hal', or hald, an abiding place 

Hale, whole, tight, healthy 

Haly, holy 

Hame, home 

Hallun, a particular partition- 
wall in a cottage, or more pro- 
perly a seat of turf at the out- 
side 

Hallowmas, Hallow- eve, the 31st 
of October 

Hamely, homely, affable 

Han, or haun', hand 

Hap, an outer garment, mantle, 
plaid, &c., to wrap, to cover ; 
to hop 

Happer, a hopper 

Happing, hopping 

Hap step an' loup, hop skip and 
leap 

Harkit, hearkened 

Ham, very coarse linen 

Hash, a fellow that neither 
knows how to dress nor act 
with propriety 

Hastit, hastened 

Haud, to hold 

Haughs, low lying, rich lands 

Haurl, to drag, to peel 

Haurlin, peeling 

Haverel, a half-witted person 

Havins, good manners, decorum 

Hawkie, a cow, properly one with 
a white face 

Heapit, heaped 

Healsome, healthful, wholesome 

Hearse, hoarse 

Hear't, hear it 

Heather, heath 

Hech ! oh ! strange ! 

Hecht, promised; to foretell 
something that is to be got or 
given; foretold; the thing 
foretold; offered 

Heckle, a board, in which are 
fixed a number of sharp pins, 
used in dressing hemp, &c 

Heeze, to elevate, to raise 

Helm, the rudder or helm 



GLOSSARY. 



577 



Herd, to tend flocks 
Herrin, a herring 
Herry, to plunder 
Herryment, plundering, devas- 
tation 
Hersel, herself; also a herd of 

cattle, of any sort 
Het, hot 

Heugh, a crag, a coalpit 
Hikh, a hobble ; to halt 
Hilchin, halting 
Himsel, himself 
Hiney, honey 
Hing, to hang 

Hirple, to walk lazily, to creep 
Hissel, so many cattle as one per- 
son can attend 
Hastie, dry ; chapped ; barren 
Hitch, a loop, a knot 
Hizzie, a hussy, a young girl 
Hoddin, the motion of a sage 
countryman riding on a cart- 
horse ; humble 
Hog-score, a kind of distance 
line, in curling, drawn across 
the rink 
Hog-shouther, a kind of horse 
play, by justling with the 
shoulder ; to justle 
Hool, outer skin or case, a nut 

shell ; a peascod 
Hoolie, slowly, leisurely 
Hoolie ! take leisure, stop 
Hoord, a hoard; to hoard 
Hoordit, hoarded 
Horn, a spoon made of horn 
Hornie, one of the many names 

of the devil 
Host, or hoast, to cough ; a cough 
Hostin, coughing 
Hosts, coughs 
Hotch'd, turn'd topsyturvy; 

blended, mixed 
Houghmagandie, fornication 
Houlet, an owl 
Housie, diminutive of house 
Hove, to heave, to swell 
Hoved, heaved, swelled 
Howdie, a midwife 
: Howe, hollow ; a hollow or dell 
• Howebackit, sunk in the back, 
spoken of a horse, &c, 
2 b 



Howff, a tippling house; a house 
of resort 

Howk, to dig 

Howkit, digged 

Howkin, digging 

Howlet, an owl 

Hoy, to urge 

Hoy't, urged 

Hoyse, to pull upwards 

Hoyte, to amble crazily 

Hughoc, diminutive of Hugh 

Hurcheon, a hedgehog 

Hurdies, the loins ; the crupper 

Hushion, a cushion 
I 

I', in 

Icker, an ear of corn 

Ier-oe, a great-grandchild 

Ilk, or ilka, each, every 

Ill-willie, ill-natured, malicious?, 
niggardly 

Ingine, genius, ingenuity 

Ingle, fire ; fire place 

Ise, I shall or will 

Ither, other; one another 
J 

JAD, jade ; also a familiar term 
among country folks for a giddy 
young girl 

Jauk, to dally, to trifle 

,#aukin, trilling, dallying 

1 Jaup, a jerk of water ; to jerk as 
agitated water 

Jaw, coarse raillery; to pour out; 
to shut, to jerk a3 water 

Jerkinet, a jerkin, or short gown 

Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl 

Jimp, to jump ; slender in the 
waist; handsome 

Jimps, easy stays 

Jink, to dodge, to turn a corner ; 
a sudden turning ; a corner 

Jinker, that turns quickly ; a gay 
sprightly girl ; a wag 

j Jinkin, dodging 

j Jirk, a jerk 

Jocteleg, a kind of knife 

Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head 

Jow, to jow, a verb which in- 
cludes both the swinging mo- 
tion and pealing sound of a 
large bell 



578 



GLOSSARY. 



Jundie, to justie. 
K. 
KAE, a daw 

Kail, colewort ; a kind of broth 
Kail-runt, the stem of colewort 
Kain, fowls, &e. paid as rent by a 

farmer 
Kebbuck, a cheese 
Keckle, to giggle ; to titter 
Keek, a peep, to peep 
Kelpies, a sort of mischievous 

spirits, said to haunt fords and 

ferries at night, especially in 

storms 
Ken, to know; kend or kenn'd, 

knew 
Kennin, a small matter 
Kenspeckle, well known, easily 

known 
Ket, matted, hairy; a fleece of 

wool 
Kilt, to truss up the clothes 
Kimmer, a young girl, a gossip 
Kin, kindred ; kin', kind, adj. 
King's- hood, a certain part of the 

entrails of an ox, &c. 
Kintra, country 
Kintra Cooser, country stallion 
Kirn, the harvest supper ; a 

churn 
Kirsen, to christen, or baptize 
Kist, a chest ; a shop counter 
Kitchen, any thing that eats with 

bread ; to serve for soup, gravy, 

&c 
Kith, kindred 
Kittle, a tickle ; ticklish ; lively, 

apt 
Kittlin, a young cat 
Kiuttle, to cuddle 
Kiuttlin, cuddling 
Kn aggie, like knags, or points of 

rocks 
Knap, to strike smartly, a smart 

blow 
Knappin-hammer, a hammer for 

breaking stones 
Knowe, a small round hillock 
Knurl, a dwarf 
Kye, cows 

Kyle, a district in Ayrshire 
Kyte, the belly 
Kythe, to discover ; to show one's 

self 



L. 






LADDIE, diminutive of lad 
Laggen, the angle between the 

side and bottom of a wooden 

dish 
Laigh, low 
Lairing, wading, and sinking in 

snow, mud, &c. 
Laith, loath 

Laithfu', bashful sheepish 
Lallans, the Scottish dialect of 

the English language 
Lambie, diminutive of lamb 
Lampit, a kind of shell-fish, a 

limpit. 
Lan', land ; estate 
Lane, lone ; my lane, thy lane &c. 

myself alone, &c 
Lanely, lonely 
Lang, long ; To think lang, to 

long, to weary 
Lap, did leap 
Lave, the rest, the remainder, 

the others 
Laverock, the lark 
Lawin, shot, reckoning, bill 
Lawlan, lowland 
Lea'e, to leave 
Leal, loyal, true, faithful. 
Lea-rig, grassy ridge 
Lear, (pronounced lare), learning 
Lee- lang, live- long 
Leesome, pleasant 
Leeze-me, a phrase of congratula- 
tory endearment ; I am happy 

in thee, or proud of thee 
Leister, a three-prong'd dart for 

striking fish 
Leugh, did laugh 
Leuk, a look ; to look 
Libbet, gelded 
Lift, the sky 

Lightly, sneeringly ; to sneer at 
Lilt, a ballad ; a tune ; to sing 
Limmer, a kept mistress, a 

strumpet 
Limp't, limped, hobbled 
Link, to trip along 
Linkin, tripping 
Linn, a waterfall ; a precipice 
Lint, flax ; Lint i' the bell, flax 

in flower 
Lintwhite, a linnet 



GLOSSARY, 



m 



Loan, or loanin, the place of milk- 
ing 

Loof, the palm of the hand 

Loot, did let 

Looves, plural of loof 

Loun, a fellow, a ragamuffin ; a 
woman of easy virtue 

Loup, jump, leap 

Lowe, a flame 

Lowin, flaming 

Lowrie, abbreviation of Lawrence 

Lowse, to loose 

Lows'd, loosed 

Lug, the ear ; a handle 

Lugget, having a handle 

Luggie, a small wooden dish with 
a handle 

Lum, the chimney 

Lunch, a large piece of cheese, 
flesh, &c. 

Lunt, a column of smoke ; to 
smoke 

Luntin, smoking 

Lyart, of a mixed colour, gray 
M 

MAE, more 

Mair, more 

Maist, most, almost 

Maistly, mostly 

Mak, to make 

Makin, making 

Mailen, a farm 

Mallie, Molly 

Mang, among 

Manse, the parsonage house, 
where the minister lives 

Manteele, a mantle 

Mark, marks (This and several 
other nouns which in English 
require an s, to form the plural, 
are in Scotch, like the words 
sheep, deer, the same in both 
numbers) 

Marled, variegated ; spotted 

Mar's year, the year 1715 

Mashlum, meslin, mixed corn 

Mask, to mash, as malt, &c. 

Maskin pat, a tea-pot 

Maud, maad, a plaid worn by 
shepherds, &c. 

Maukin, a hare 

Maun, must 

Mavis, the thrush 



Maw, to mow 

Mawin, mowing 

Meere, a mare 

Meikle, meickle, much 

Melancholious, mournful 

Melder, corn, or grain of any 
kind, sent to the mill to be 
ground. 

Mell, to meddle. Also a mallet 
for pounding barley in a stone 
trough 

Melvie, to soil with meal 

Men', to mend 

Mense, good manners, decorum 

Menseless, ill-bred, rude, impu- 
dent 

Messin, a small dog 

Midden, a dunghill 

Midden-hole, a gutter at the bot- 
tom of a dunghill 

Mim, prim, affectedly meek 

Min', mind ; resemblance 

Mind t, mind it; resolved, intend- 
ing 

Minnie, mother, dam 

Mirk, mirkest, dark, darkest 

Misca', to abase, to call names 

Misca'd, abused 

Mislear'd, mischievous, unman- 
nerly 

Misteuk, mistook 

Mither, a mother 

Mixtie maxtie, confusedly mixed 

Moistify, to moisten 

Mony, or monie, many 

Mools, dust, earth, the earth of 
the grave ; To rake i' the 
mools ; to lay in the dust 

Moop, to nibble as a sheep 

Moorlan', of or belonging to 
moors 

Morn, the next day, to morrow 

Mou, the mouth 

Moudiwort, a mole 

Mousie, diminutive of mouse 

Muckle, or mickle, great, big, 
much 

Musie, diminutive of muse 

Muslin-kail, broth, composed sim- 
ply of water, shelled barley, 
and greens 

Mutchkin, an English pint 

Mysel, myself 



I 



£80 



GLOSSARY. 



N 



NA, no, not, nor 

Nae, no, not any 

Naething, or naithin, nothing 

Naig, a horse 

Kane, none 

Nappy, ale ; to be tipsy 

Negleckit, neglected 

Neuk, a nook 

Neist, next 

Nieve, the fist 

Nievefu', handful 

Niffer, an exchange; to exchange, 
to barter 

Niger, a negro 

Nine- tailed- cat, a hangman's whip 

Nit, a nut 

Norland, of or belonging to the 
north 

Notic't, noticed 

Nowte, black cattle. 

0. 
0\ of 

Ochils, name of mountains 
O haith, faith ! an oath 
Ony, or onie, any 
Or, is often used for ere, before 
Ora, or orra, supernumerary 

that can be spared 
O't, of it 

Ourie, shivering ; drooping 
Oursel, oursels, ourselves 
Outlers, cattle not housed 
Owre, over; too. 

Owre-hip, a way of fetching a 
blow with the hammer over the 
arm 



PACK intimate, familiar ; twelve 

stone of wool 
Painch, paunch 
Paitrick, a partridge 
Pang, to cram 
Parle, speech 
Parritch, oatmeal pudding, a 

well-known Scotch dish 
Pat, did put ; a pot 
Pattle, or pettle, a plough-staff 
Paughty, proud, haughty 
Pauky, or pawkie, cunning, sly 
Pay't, paid ; beat 
Pech, to fetch the breath short, 

as in an asthma 



Pechan, the crop, the stomach 
Peelin, peeling, the rind of fruit 
Pet,a domesticated sheep, &c. 
Pettle, to cherish ; a plough staff 
Philabegs, short petticoats worn 

by the Highlandmen 
Phraise, fair speeches, Mattery ; 

to flatter 
Phraisin, flattery 
Pibroch, Highland war music 

adapted to the bagpipe 
Pickle, a small quantity 
Pine, pain, uneasiaes3 
Pit, to put 

Placad, public proclamation 
Plack, an old Scotch coin, the 
third part of a Scotch penny, 
twelve of which make an Eng- 
lish penny 
Plackless, pennyless, without 

money 
Platie, diminutive of plate 
Plew, or pleugh, a plough 
Pliskie, a trick 

Poind, to seize cattle or goods 
for rent, as the laws of Scotland 
allow 
Poortith, poverty 
Pou, to pull 
Pouk, to pluck 
Poussie, a hare, or cat 
Pout, a poult, a chick 
Pou't, did pull 
Powthery, like powder 
Pow, the head, the skull 
Pownie, a little horse 
Powther, or pouther, powder 
Preen, a pin 
Prent, to print ; print 
Prie, to taste 
Prie'd, tasted 
Prief, proof 

Prig, to cheapen ; to dispute 
Primsie, demure, precise 
Propone, to lay down, to propose 
Provoses, provosts 
Puddockstool, a mushroom, fun- 
gus 
Pund, pound ; pounds \ 

Pyle,— a pyle o' caff, a singly 






grain of chaff 



I QUAT,toquit 



Q. 



GLOSSARY. 



881 



Quak, to quake 

Quey, a cow from one to two 
years old 

R. > 
RAGWEED, the herb ragwort 
Raible, to rattle nonsense 
Rair, to roar 

Raize, to madden, to inflame 
Rarn-feezl'd, fatigued ; overspread j 
Ram stam, thoughtless, forward | 
Raploch, properlya coarse cloth; j 

but used as an adnoun for 

coarse 
Rarely, excellently, very well 
Rash, a rush ; rash- buss, a bush 

of rushes 
Rat ton, a rat 

Raucle, rash; stout-; fearless 
Raught, reached 
Raw, a row 
Rax, to stretch 
Ream, cream ; to cream 
Reaming, brimful, frothing 
Reave, rove 
Reek, to heed 
Rede, counsel ; to counsel 
Red-wat-shod, walking in blood 

over the >hoe tops 
Red-wud, stark mad 
Ree, half drunk, fuddled 
Reek, smoke 
Reekin, smoking 
Reekit, smoked ; smoky 
Remead, remedy 
Requite, requited 
Rest, to stand restive 
Restit, stood restive; stunted; 

withered 
Restricked, restricted 
Rew, to repent, to compassionate 
Rief, reef, plenty 
Rief randies, sturdy beggars 
Rig, a ridge 
Rigwiddie, rigwoodie, the rope or 

chain that crosses the saddle 

of ahorse to support the epokea 

of a cart ; spare, withered, sap 

less 
l Rin, to run, to melt; Rinnin, 

running 
f Rink, the" course of the stones* 

a term in cnrling on ice 
Rip, a handful of unthreshed 

corn 



Riskit, made a noise like the 

tearing of roots 
Rockin, spinning on the rock, or 

distaff 
Rood, stands likewise for the 

plural roods 
Roon, a shred, a border or sel- 
vage 
Roose, to praise, to commend 
Roosty, rusty 
Roun', round, in the circle of 

neighbourhood 
Roupet, hoarse, as with a cold 
Routhie, plentiful 
Row, to roll, to wrap 
Row't, rolled, wrapped 
Rowte, to low, to bellow 
Ronth, or routh, plenty 
Rowtin, lowing 
Rozet, rosin 
Rung, a cudgel 
Runkled, wrinkled 
Runt, the stem of cole wort or 

cabbage 
Ruth, a woman's name ; the book 

so called ; sorrow 
Ryke, to reach 

S. 
SAE, so 
Saft, soft 

Sair, to serve ; a sore 
Sairly, or sairlie, sorely 
Sair't, served 
Sark, a shirt ; a shift 
Sarkit, provided in shirts 
Saugh, the willow 
Saul, soul 
Saumont, salmon 
| Saunt, a saint 
j Saut, salt, adj. salt 
| Saw, to sow 
S Sawin, sowing 
I Sax, six 

j Scaith, to damage, to injure ; in- 
I jury 
! Scar, a cliff 
! Scaud, to scald 
j Scauld, to scold 
I Scaur, apt to be scard 
Seal, a scold ; a termagant 
Scon, a cake of bread 
Sconner, a loathin ; to loathe 
Scraich, to scream as a hen, &c. 
Screed, to tear; a rent 



582 



GLOSSARY. 



Scrieve, to glide swiftly along 

Scrimp, to scant 

Scrimpet, did scant ; scanty 

See'd did see 

Seizin, seizing 

Sel, self ; a body's sel, one's self 
alone 

Sell't, did sell 

Sen', to send 

Sen't, I, &c. sent, or did send it ; 
send it 

Servan', servant 

Settlin/ settling; to get a settlin, 
to be frighted into quietness 

Sets, sets off, goes away 

Shackled, distorted ; shapeless 

Shaird, a shred, a shard 

Shangan, a stick cleft at one end 
for puttin the tail of a dog, &c. 
into the by of mischief, or to 
frighten him away. 

Shrver, a humorous wag ; a bar- 
ber 

Shaw, to show ; a small wood in 
a hollow 

Sheen, bright, shining 

Sheep- shank ; to think one's self 
nae sheep shank, to be conceit- 
ed. 

Sherra-moor, sheriff- moor, the 
famous battle fought in the re- 
bellion, a,d. 1746 

Sheugh, a ditch, a trench 

Shiel, a sired 

Shill,shrll 

Shog, a shock ; a push off at one 
one side 

School, a shovel 

Shoon, shoes 

Snore, to offer, to threaten 

Shor'd, offered 

Shouther, the shoulder 

Shure, did shear, shore 

Sic, such 

Sicker, sure, steady 

Sidelins, sidelong, slanting 

Siller, silver ; money 

Simmer, summer 

Sin, a son 

Sin', since 

Skaith, see scaith 

Skellum, worthless fellow 



Skelp, to strike, to slap ; to walk 
a smart tripping stept ; a smart 
stroke 

Skelpie-limmer, a reproachful 
term in female scolding 

Skelpin, stepping, walking 

Skiegh, or skeigh, proud, '.nice, 

highmettled 

Skinklin, a small portion 

Skirl, to shriek, to cry shrilly 

Skirl't, shrieked 

Sklen, slont ; to run aslgnt, to 
deviate from truth 

Sklented, ran, or hit, in an 
oblique direction 

Skouth, freedom to converse with- 
out restraint ; range, scope 

Skriegh, a scream ; to scream 

Skyrin, shining 

Skyte, force 

Slae, a sloe 

Slade, did slide 

Slap, a gate ; a breach in a fence 

Slaver, saliva ; to emit saliva 

Slaw, slow 

Slee, sly : sleest, sliest 

Sleekit, sleek ; sly 

Sliddery, slippery 

Slype, to fall over, as a wet fur- 
row from the plough 

Slypet, fell 

Sma/ small 

Smeddum, dust, powder ; mettle, 
sense 

Smiddy, a smithy 

Smoor, to smother 

Smoor'd, smothered 

Smoutie, smutty, obscene, ugly 

Smytrie, a numerous collection of 
small individuals 

Snapper, to stumble 

Snash, abuse, Billingsgate 

Snaw, snow ; to snow 

Snaw-broo, melted snow 

Snawie, snowy 

Sneck, snick, the latch of a door 

Sned, to lop, to cut off 

Sneeshin, snuff 

Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box. 

Snell, bitter, biting 

Snick- drawing, trick-contriving 
crafty 






GLOSSARY. 



583 



Snirtle, to laugh restrainedly 

Snood, a ribbon for binding the 
hair 

Snool, one whose spirit is broken 
with oppressive slavery ; to 
submit tamely, to sneak 

Snoove, to go smoothly and con- 
stantly ; to sneak 

Snowk, to scent, or snuff, as a dog, 
&c. 

Snowkit, scented, snuffed 

Sonsie, having sweet, engaging 

looks; lucky, jolly 

Soom, to Swim. 

Sooth, truth, a petty oath 

Sough, a heavy sigh, a sound dy- 
ing in the ear. 

Souple, flexible ; swift 

S outer, a shoemaker 

Sowens, a dish made of oatmeal ; 
the seeds of oatmeal soured, 
&c. flummery 

Sowp, a spoonful, a small quan- 
tity of any thing liquid 

Sowth, to try over a tune with a 
low whistle 

Sowther, solder ; to solder, to ce- 
ment 

Spae, to prophesy, to divine. 

Spaul, a limb. 

Spairge, to dash, to soil, as with 
mire 

Spaviet, having the spavin 

Spean, spane, to wean 

Speat, or spate, a sweeping tor- 
rent, after rain, or thaw 

Speel, to climb 

Spence the country parlour 

Spier, to ask, to inquire 

Spier't, inquired 

Splatter, a splutter, to splutter 

Spleughan, tobacco-pouch 

Splore, a frolic ; a noise, riot 

Sprackle, sprachle, to clamber 

Sprattle, to scramble 

Spreckled, spotted, speckled 

Spring, a quick air in music ; a 
Scottish reel 

Sprit, a tough -rooted plant, some- 
thing like rushes 

Sprittie, full of sprits 

Spunk, fire, mettle ; wit 

Spunkie, mettlesome, fiery ; will- 
o'wisp, or ignis fatuus 



Spurtle, a stick, used in making 
oatmeal pudding or porridge 

Squad, a crew, a party 

Squatter, to flutter in water, as a 
wild duck 

Squattle, to sprawl 

Squeel, a scream, a screech ; to 
scream 

Sfcacher, to stagger 

Stack, a rick of corn, hay, &c. 

Staggie, the diminutive of stag 

Stalwart, strong, stout 

Stan, to stand ; stan't, did stand 

Stane, a stone 

Stang, to sting ; an acute pain 

Stank, did stink 

Stap, stop 

Stark, stout 

Startle, to run as cattle stung by 
the gad-fly 

Staumrel, a blockhead 

Staw, did steal ; to surfeit 

Stech, to cram the belly 

Stechin, cramming 

Steek, to shut ; a stitch 

Stear, to molest ; to stir 

Steeve, firm, compacted 

Stell, a still 

Sten, to rear as a horse 

Sten't, reared 

Stents, tribute 

Stey, steep ; steyest, steepest 

Stibble, stubble ; stibble-rig, the 
reaper in harvest who takes the 
lead 

Stick an' stow, totally, altogether 

Stile, a crutch ; to halt, to limp 

Stimpart, the eighth part of a 
Winchester bushel 

Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old 

Stock, a plant or root of cole wort, 
cabbage, &c. 

Stockin, a stocking ; Throwing 
the stockin, when the bride 
and bridegroom are put into 
bed, and the candle out, the 
former throws a stocking at 
random among the company, 
and the person whom it strikes 
is the next that will be mar- 
ried. 

Stoiter, to stagger, to stammer 

Stooked, made up in shocks as 
corn 



584 



C4L0SSARY. 



i 



Stoor, Bounding hollow, strong, 

and hoarse 
Stot, an ox 
Stoup, or stowp, a kind of jug or 

dish with a handle, 
Stoure, dust, more particularly 

dust in motion 
Stowlins, by stealth 
Stown, stolen 
Stoyte, to stumble 
S track, did strike 
Strae, straw; to die a fair strae 

death, to die in bed 
Straik, did strike 
Straikit, stroked 
Strappin, tall and handsome 
Straught, straight 
Street, stretched, tight 
Striddle, to straddle 
Stroain, to spout, to piss 
Stud die, an anvil 
Stumpie, diminutive of stump 
Strunt, spirituous liquor of any 

kind ; to walk sturdily ; huff, 

sullenness 
Stuff, corn or pulse of any kind 
Sturt, tro uble ; to molest 
Sturtin, frighted 
Sucker, sugar 
Sud, should 
Sugh, the continued rushing 

noise of wind or water. 
Southron, southern ; an old name 

for the English nation 
Swaird, sward 
Swall'd, swelled 
Swank, stately, jolly 
Swankie, or s wanker, a tight 

strappin young fellow or girl 
Swap, an exchange ; to barter 
Swarf, to swoon ; a swoon 
Swat, did sweat 
Swatch, a sample 
Swats, drink; good ale 
Sweaten, sweating 
Sweer, lazy, averse ; deadsweer, 

extremely averse 
Swoor, swore, did swear 
Swinge, to beat ; to whip 
Swirl, a curve; an eddying blast, 

or pool ; a knot in wood 
Swirlie, knaggie, full of knots 



Swith,- get away 

S wither, to hesitate in choice ; 
an irresolute wavering in choice 

Syne, since, ago ; then 
T 

TACKETS, a kind of nails for 
driving into the heels of shoes 

Tae, a toe; three tae'd, having 
three prengs 

Tairge, a target 

Tak, to take ; takin, taking 

Tamtallan, the name of a moun- 
tain 

Tangle, a sea-weed 

Tap, the top 

Tapetless, heedless, foolish 

Tarrow, to murmur at one's 
allowance 

Tarrow't, murmured 

Tarry-breeks, a sailor 

Tauld, or tald, told 

Taupie, a foolish, thoughtless 
young person 

Tauted, or tautie, matted to- 
gether ; spoken of hair or wool 

Tawie, that alows itself peaceably 
to be handled; spoken of a 
horse, cow, &c. 

Teat, a small quantity 

Teen, to provoke, provocation 

Tedding, spreading after the 
mower 

Ten- hours bite, a slight feed to 
the horses while in the yoke, 
in the forenoon 

Tent, a field-pulpit ; heed, cau- 
tion ; to take heed ; to tend or 
herd cattle 

Tentie, heedful, cautious 

Tentless, heedless 

Teugh, tough 

Thack, thatch; thack an' rape, 
clothing necessaries 

Thae, these 

Thairms, small guts; fiddle- 



strings 



Thankit, thanked 
Theekit, thatched 
Thegithcr, together 
Themsel, themselves 
Thick, intimate, familiar 



GLOSSARY* 



tea 



Thieveless, cold, dry, spited; spo- 
ken of a person's demeanour 

Thir, these 

Thirl, thrill 

Thirled, thrilled, vibrated 

Thole, to suffer, to endure 

Thowe, a thaw ; to thaw 

Thowless, slack, lazy 

Thrang, throng ; a crowd 

Thrapple, throat, windpipe 

Thrave, twenty- four sheaves or 
two shocks of corn ; a consider- 
able number 

Thraw, to sprain, to twist; to 
contradict 

Thrawin, twisting, &c. 

Thrawn, sprained, twisted; con- 
tradicted 

Threap, to maintain by dint of 
assertion 

Threshin, thrashing 

Threteen, thirteen 

Thristle, thistle 

Through, to go on with ; to make 
out. 

Throuther, pell-mell, confusedly 

Thud, to make a loud intermit- 
tent noise 

Thumpit, thumped 

Thysel, thyself 

Tili't, to it 

Timmer, timber 

Tine, to loose ; tint, lost 

Tinkler, a tinker 

Tint the gate, lost the way 

Tip, a ram 

Tip pence, twopence 

Tirl, to make a slight noise ; to 
uncover 

Tirlin, uncovering 

Tither, the other 

Tittle, to whisper 

Tittlin, whispering 

Tocher, marriage portion 

Tod, a fox 

Toddle, to totter, like the walk of 
a child, 

Toddlin, tottering 

Tooni, empty, to empty 

Toop, a rani 

Touri, a hamlet; a farm-house 

Tout, the btetst of a horn or trum- 
pet ; to blow a horn, &c. 
2b fi 



Tow, a rope 

Towmond, a twelvemonth 
Towzie, rough, and shaggy 
Toy, a very old fashion of female 

head-dress 
I Toy te, to totter like old age 
Transmugrified, transmigrated, 

metamorphosed 
Trashtrie, trash 
Trews, trowsers 
Trickie, full of tricks 
Trig, spruce, neat 
Trimly, excellently 
Trow,, to believe 
Trowtb, truth, a petty oath 
Tryste, an appointment; a fair 
Trysted, appointed ; To tryste 

to make an appointment 
Try't, tried 
Tug, raw hide, of which in old 

times ploughtraces were fre- 
quently made 
Tulzie, a quarrel ; to quarrel, to 

light. 
Tw T a, two 
Twa-three, a few 
Twad, it would 
'Twal, twelve ; twal-pennie worth 

a small quantity, a pennie- 

worth 
ST. B. One penny English is 12d 

Scotch 
Twin, to part 
Tyke, a dog 

UNCO, strange, uncouth; very, 

very great, prodigious 
Uncos, news 
Unkenn'd, unknown 
Unsicker, unsure, unsteady 
Unskaith'd, undamaged, unhurt 
Unweeting, unwittingly, unknow 

i^-giy 

Upo', upon 
Urchin, a hedgehog 

VAP'RIN, vapouring 

Vers, very 

Virl, a ring round a column, &c 

Vittle, corn of all kinds, food 

W 
WA', wall ; wa's, walls 
Wabster, a weaver. 



58S 



GLOSSARY, 



Wad, would ; to bet, a pledge 

Wadna, would not 

Wae, wo ; sorrowful 

Waefu', woful, sorrowful, wail- 
ing 

Waesucks ! or waes me ! alas ! 
the pity 

Waft, the cross thread that goes 
from the shuttle through the 
web ; woof 

Wair, to lay out, to expend. 

Wale, choice ; to choose 

Waled, chose, chosen 

Walie, ample, large, jolly; also 
an interjection of distress 

Wame, the belly 

Wamefu', a belly- full 

Wanchancie, unlucky 

Wanrestfu', restless 

Wark, work 

Wark-lume, a tool to work with 

War], or warld, world 

Warlock, a wizard 

Warly, worldly, eager on amass- 
ing wealth 

Warran, a warrant ; to warrant 

Warst, worst 

Warstl'd or warsl'd, wrestled 

Wastrie, prodigality 

Wat, wet ; I wat, 1 wot, I know 

Water-brose, brose made of mea- 
and water simply, without the 
addition of milk, butter &c. 

Wattle, a twig, a wand 

Wauble, to swing, to reel 

Waught, a draught 

Waukit, thickened as fullers do 
cloth 

Waukrife, not apt to sleep 

Waur, worse ; to worst 

Waur't, worsted 

Wean, or weanie, a child 

Wearie, or weary ; many a weary 
body, many a different person 

Weason, weasand 

Weaving the stocking. See 
Stocking, p. 583 

Wee, little; Wee things, little 
ones ; Wee bit, a small matter 

Weel, well ; Weelfare, welfare 

Weet, rain, wetness 

Weird, fate 



We'se, we shall 

Wha, who 

Whaizle, to wheeze 

Whalpit, whelped 

Whang, a leathern string; apiece 

of cheese, bread, &c. to give the 

strappado 
Whare, where; Whare'er, wher- 
ever 
Wheep, to fly nimbly, jerk; 

penny- wheep, small beer 
Whase, whose 
Whatreck, nevertheless 
Whid, the motion of a hare, run- 
ning but not frighted ; a lie 
Whiddio, running as a hare or 

cony 
Whigmeleeries, whims, fancies, 

crotchets 
Whingin, crying, complaining, 

fretting 
Whirligigums, useless ornaments, 

trifling appendages 
Whissle, a whistle ; to whistle 
Whisht, silence; to hold one's 

whisht, to be silent 
Whisk, to sweep, to lash 
Whiskit, lashed 
Whitter, a hearty draught of 

liquor 
Whunstane, a whin-stone 
Whyles, whiles, sometimes 
Wi', with 
Wicht, wight, powerful, strong ; 

inventive ; of a superior genius 
Wick, to strike a stone in an 

oblique direction; a term in 

curling 
Wicher, willow (the smaller sort) 
Wiel, a small whirlpool 
Wifie, a diminutive or endearing 

term for wife 
Wilyart, bashful and reserved; 

avoiding society or appearing 

awkward in it, wild, strange, 

timid 
Wimple, to meander 
Wimpl't, meandered 
Wimplin, waving, meandering 
Win, to win, to winnow 
Win't winded as a bottom of yam 
Win', wind ; Win's, winds 



GLOSSARY. 



587 



Winna, will not 

Winnock, a window 

"Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay 

"VVintle, a staggering motion ; to 
stagger, to reel 

Winze, an oath. 

Wiss, to wish 

Withoutten, without 

Wizen'd, hide-bound, dried, 
shrunk 

Wonner, a wonder ; a contemptu- 
ous appellation 

Wons, dwells 

Woo', wool 

Woo, to court, to make love to 

Woodie, a rope, more properly 
one made of withes or willows 

Wooer-bab, the garter knotted 
below the knee with a couple 
of loops 

Wordy, worthy 

Worset, worsted 

Wow, an exclamation of pleasure 
or wonder 

Wrack, to teaze, to vex 

Wraith, a spirit, or ghost ; an ap- 
aparition exactly like a living 
person, whose appearance is 
said to forbode the person's ap- 
proaching death. 

Wrang, wrong ; to wrong 

Wreeth, a drifted heap of snow 



Wud, mad, distracted 
Wumble, a wimble 
Wyle, to beguile 
Wyliecoat, a flannel vest 
Wyte, blame; to blame 

Y 
YAD, an old mare ; a worn out 

horse 
Ye; this pronoun is frequently 

used for thou 
Yearns, longs much 
Yearlings, born in the same year, 

coevals 
Year is used both for singular 

and plural years 
Yearn, earn, an eagle, an ospray 
Yell, barren, that gives no milk 
Yerk, to lash, to jerk 
Yerkit, jerked, lashed 
Yestreen, yesternight 
Yett, a gate, such as is usually at 

the entrance into a farm-yard 

or held 
Till, ale 
Yird, earth 

Yokin, yoking ; a bout 
Yont, beyond 
Yoursel, yourself 
Yowe, a ewe 

Yowie, diminutive of yowe 
Yule, Christmas 



INDEX, 



PREFATORY REMARKS 

ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION OF THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY* 

PAGET. 

Effects of the legal establishment of parochial schools — of the 
church establishment — of the absence of poor laws — of 
the Scottish music and national songs — of the laws re- 
specting marriage and incontinence — Observations on 
the domestic and national attachment of the Scots ... ix 

LIFE OF BURNS. 

Narrative of his infaney and youth, by himself — Narrative on 
the same subject, by his brother, and by Mr. Murdoch 
of London, his teacher — Other particulars of Burns 
while resident in Ayrshire — History of Burns while 
resident in Edinburgh, including letters to the Editor 
from Mr. Stewart, and Dr. Adair — History of Barns 
while on the farm of Ellisland, in Dumfries-shire-- 
History of Burns while in Dumfries — his last illness — 
death — and character— with genera^ reflections ... 21 

Memoir respecting Burns, by a lady ... ... ... 96 

Criticism on the Works of Burns, including observations on 
poetry in the Scottish dialect, and some remarks on 
Scottish literature ... ... ... ... 102 

Tributary Yerses on the Death of Burns, by Mr. Roscoe ... 127 

GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 

1 . To a Female Friend. Written about the year 1780 ... 130 

2. To the same ... ... ... ... ... 131 

3. To the same ... ... ... ... ... 132 

4. To the same ... ... ... ... ... 133 

5. To Mr. John Murdoch, 15th Jan. 1783, Burn's former 

teacher ; giving an account of his present studies and 
temper of mind ... ... ... ... ib. 

6. Extracts from MSS. Observations on various subjects ... 135 

7. To Mr. Aiken, 1786. Written under distress of mind ... 139 

8. To Mrs. Dunlop. Thanks for her notice. Praise of her 

ancestor, Sir William Wallace ... ... ... 140 

9. To Mrs. Stewart of Stair, enclosing a poem on Miss A 111 

10. Dr. Blacklock to the Rev. G. Lowrie, encouraging the 

Bard to visit Edinburgh, and print anew edition of 

his poems there ... ... ... ... 142 



INDEX. 589 

PAGE. 

11. From Sir John Whitefoord ... ... ... 142 

12. From the Rev. Mr. Lowrie, 22d December, 1786. Ad- 

vice to the Bard how to conduct himself in Edinburgh 143 

13. To Mr. Chalmers, 27th December 1786. Praise of Miss 

Burnet of Monboddo ... ... ... ib. 

14. To the Earl of Eglinton, Jan. 1787. Thanks for his pa- 

tronage ... ... ... ... ... 144 

15. To Mrs. Dunlop, 15th Jan. 1787. Account of his situa- 

tion in Edinburgh ... ... ... ... ib. 

16. To Dr. Moore, 1787. Grateful acknowledgments of Dr. 

M.'s notice of him in his letters to Mrs. Dunlop ... 146 

17. From Dr. Moore, 23d Jan. 1787. In answer to the fore- 

going, and enclosing a sonnet on the Bard, by Miss 
Williams ... ... ■ ... ... ... ib. 

18. To Dr. Moore, 15th February, 1787 ... ... 147 

19. From Dr. Moore, 28th February 1787. Sends the Bard 

a present of his " Yiew of Society and Manners," &c. 148 

20. To the Earl of Glencairn, 1787. Grateful acknowledg- 

ments of kindness ... ... ... ... 149 

21. To the Earl of Buchan, in reply to a letter of advice ... ib. 

22. Extract concerning the monument erected for Ferguson 

by our Poet ... ... ... ... ... 150 

23. To , accompanying the foregoing ... ... 151 

24. Extract from , 8th March 1787. Good advice ... ib. 

25. To Mrs. Dunlop, 22d March 1787. Respecting his pros- 

pects on leaving Edinburgh ... ... ... 152 

26. To the same, 15th April 1787. On the same subject ... 153 

27. To Dr. Moore, 23d April 1787. On the same subject ... 154 

28. Extract to Mrs. Dunlop, 30th April. Reply to Criti- 

cisms ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

29. To the Rev. Dr. Blair, 3rd May. Written on leaving 

Edinburgh. Thanks for his kindness .. ... 155 

30. From Dr. Blair, 4th May, in reply to the preceding ... ib. 

31. From Dr. Moore, 23rd May 1787. Criticism and good 

advice ... ... ... ... ... 156 

32. From Mr. John Hutchison ... ... ... ... 158 

33. To Mr. Walker, at Blair of Athgie, enclosing the "Humble 

Petition of Bruar Water to the Duke of A thole" ... ib. 

34. To Mr. G. Burns, 17th Sept. Account of his tour through 

the Highlands ... ... ... ... ... 159 

35. From Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 22d October, enclosing 

Latin inscriptions, with translations, and the tale of 
Omeron Cameron ... ... ... ... 160 

36. From Mr. Walker ... ... ... ... ... 162 

37. From Mr. A M ~™ . ... ... ... 163 

38. Mr. Ramsay to Rev. W. Young, 22d Oct. introducing our 

Poet ... ... ... ... ... ... 165 

39. Mr. Ramsay to Dr Blacklock, 27th Oct. Anecdotes of 

Scottish 'Songs for our Poet ... ... ... 166 

40. Frcm Mr. John Murdoch, in London, 28th Oct. in answer 

to JNo. 5 ... ... ... ,., ... ib. 



590 



INDEX. 



PAGE. 






41. From Mr. , Gordon Castle, 31st Oct. 1787, acknow- 

ledging a song sent to Lady Charlotte Gordon ... 

42. From Kev. J. Skinner, 14th November, 1787, some ac- 

count of Scottish Poems 

43. From Mrs 30th Nov. enclosing Erse Songs, with 

the Music 

44. To Dalrymple, Esq. Congratulation on his becom- 

ing a poet. Praise of Lord Glencairn 

45. To Mrs. Dunlop, 21st Jan., 1798. Written on recovery 

from sickness 

46. Extract to the same, 12th Feb., 1788. Defence of himself 

47. To the same, 7th March, 1788. Who had heard that he 

had ridiculed her 

48. To Mr. Cleghorn, 31st March, 1788, mentioning his hav- 

ing composed the first stanza of the Chevalier's Lament 

49. From Mr. Cleghorn, 27th April, in reply to the above. 

The Chevalier's Lament in full, in a note ... 

50. To Mrs. Dunlop, 28th April, giving an account of his 

prospects 

51. From the Eev. J. Skinner, 28th April, 1788, enclosing 

two songs, one by a Buchan ploughman : the songs 
printed at large 

52. To Professor D. Stewart, 3d May. Thanks for his friend- 

ship ... 
53^ Extract to Mrs. Dunlop, 4th May, Eemarks on Dryden's 
Yirgil, and Pope's Odyssey 

54. To the same, 27th May. General Eeflections ... 

55. To the same, at Mr. Dunlop's, Haddington, 13th June, 1788. 

Account of his marriage 

56. To Mr. P. Hill, with a present of a cheese 

57. To Mrs. Dunlop, 2d August, 1788. With lines on a her- 

mitage 

58. To the same, 10th August. Further account of his mar- 

riage ... 

59. To the same, 16th August. Eeflections on Human Life 

60. To E. Graham, Esq., of Fintry. A petition in verse for 

a situation in the Excise 

61. To Mr. P. Hill, 1st Oct., 1788. Criticism on a poem en- 

titled, " An address to Loch-Lomond" 

62. To Mrs. Dunlop, at Moreham Maines, 13th November ... 

63. To , 8th Nov. Defence of the family of the Stuarts. 

Baseness of insulting fallen greatness 

64. To Mrs. Dunlop, 17th Dec. with the soldier's song — " Go 

fetch to me a pint of wine" 

65. To Miss Davies, a young Lady who had heard he had been 

making a ballad on her, enclosing that ballad 

66. To Sir John Whitefoord ... 

67. From Mr. G. Burns, 1st Jan. 1789. Eeflections suggested 

bv the day 
63. To Mrs. Dunlop, 1st Jan. Eeflections suggested by the 
day ... 



167 

168 

199 

170 

171 
ib. 

172 

ib. 

173 

ib. 



174 

176 

177 
ib. 



17S 
179 

186 

182 
183 

182 

187 
189 

19$ 

191 

193 
ib. 

194 

195 



INDEX. 5$I 

PAGE. 

69. To Dr. Moore, 4th Jan. Account of his situation and 

prospects ... .. ... ... ... 196 

70. To Bishop Geddes, 3d February. Account of his situa- 

tion and prospects .. ... ... ... 197 

71. From the Rev. P. Carfrae, 2d January, 1789. Requesting 

advice as to the publishing Mr. Mylne's poems ... 198 

72. To Mrs. Dunlop, 4th March. Reflections after a visit to 

Edinburgh ... ... ... ... ... 199 

73. To the Rev. P. Carfrae, in answer to No. 71 ... ... 200 

74. To Dr. Moore. Inclosing a poem ... ... ... 201 

75. To Mr. Hill. Apostrophe to Frugality ... ... 202 

76. To Mrs. Dunlop. With a sketch of an epistle in verse to 

the Right Hon. C. J. Fox ... ... ... 203. 

77. To Mr. Cunningham ... ... ... ... 204 

78. From Dr. Gregory. Criticism of the poem on a Wounded 

Hare ... ... ... ... ... ... 205 

79. To Mr. M'Auley of Dumbarton. Account of his situation 206 

80. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections on Religion ... ... 207 

81. From Dr. Moore. Good advice ... ... ... ib. \ 

82. From Miss J. Little. A poetess in humble life, with a 

poem in praise of our Bard ... ... ... 208 ( 

83. From Mr. . Some account of Ferguson ... ... 210 \ 

84. To Mr. . In answer ... ... .. ... 211 

85. To Mrs. Dunlop: Praise of Zeluco .. . ... ... 212 

86. From Dr. Blacklock. An epistle in verse ... ... 213 

87. To Dr. Blacklock. Poetical reply to the above ... 214 

88. To R. Graham, Esq. Inclosing some electioneering bal- 

lads 215 

89. To Mrs. Dunlop. Serious and interesting reflections ... 216 

90. To Sir John Sinclair. Account of a book society among 

the farmers in Nithsdale ... ... ... 217 

91. To Mr. Gilbert Burns. With a Prologue spoken in the 

Dumfries Theatre ... ... ... ... 219 

92. To Mrs. Dunlop. Some account of Falconer, the author 

of the Shipwreck ... ... ... ... 220 

93. From Mr. Cunningham. Inquiries of our Bard ... 221 

94. To Mr. Cunningham. In reply to the above ... ib. 

95. To Mr. Hill. Order for books ... ... ... 223 

96. To Mrs. Dunlop. Remarks on the Lounger, and on the 

writings of Mr. Mackenzie ... ... ... 224 

97. From Mr. Cunningham. Account of the Death of Mrs. 

Monboddo ... ... .„ ... ... 226 

98. To Dr. Moore. Thanks for a present of Zeluco ... ib. 

99. To Mrs. Dunlop. Written under wounded pride ... 227 

100. To Mr. Cunningham, 8 th August. Aspirations after in- 

dependence ... ... ... ... ... 228 

101. From Dr. Blacklock, 1st September 1790. Poetical let- 

ter of Friendship ... ... ... ... ib. 

102. Extract from Mr. Cunningham, 14th October. Suggest- 

ing subjects for our Poet's muse ... ... ... 229 

103. To Mr. Dunlop, 1790. Congratulations on the birth of 

her grandson ... .., ..« ... ... 230 



592 



INDEX. 



/ 



PAGE. 

194. To Mr. Cunningham, 23d Jan. 1791, with an elegy on 

Miss Burnet of Monboddo ... ... ... ib. 

3 05. To Mr. Hill, 17th Jan. Indignant Apostrophe to Poverty 231 

106. From A. F. Tytler, Esq. 12th March. Criticismfon Tarn o' 

Shanter ... ... ... ... ... 232 

107. To A. F. Tytler, Esq. in reply to the above .,, ... 233 

108. To Mrs. Dunlop, 7th February 1791. Enclosing his elegy 

on Miss Burnet ... ... ... ... ... 234 

1G9. To Lady W. M. Constable, acknowledging a present of a 

snuff-box ... ... ... ... ... 235 

110. To Mrs Graham of Fin try, enclosing "Queen Mary's Lament ib. 

111. From the Rev. G. Baird, 8th February, 1781, requesting 

assistance in publishing the poems of Michael Bruce 236 

112. To the Rev. G. Baird, in reply to the above ... ... 237 

113. To Dr Moore, 28th February 1791, enclosing Tarn o' Shan- 

ter, &c. ... .. ... ... ... ib. 

114. From Dr Moore, 29th March, with remarks on Tarn o' 

Shanter, &c. ... ... ... ... ... 239 

115. To the Rev. A. Alison, 14th Feb. acknowledging his pre- 

sent.'of the " Essays on the Principles of Taste," witty re- 
marks on the book ... ... ... ... 240 

116. To Mr Cunningham, 1 2th March, with a Jacobite song, &c. 241 

117. To Mrs Dunlop, 11th April. Comparison between female 

attractions in high and humble life ... ... 242 

118. To Mr Cunningham, 11th June, requesting his interest 

for an oppressed friend ... ... ... ... 243 

119. From the Earl of Buchan, 17th June 1791, inviting over 

our Bard to the coronation of the bust of Thomson on Ed- 
nam hill ... ... ... ... ... 244 

120. To the Earl of Buchan, in reply ... ... ... ib. 

121. From the Earl of Buchan, 16th Sept. 1791, proposing 

a subject for our Poet's muse ... .. ... 245 

122. To Lady E. Cunningham enclosing u The Lament for 

James, Earl of Glencairn" ... ... ... ib. 

123. To Mr Ainslie. State of his mind after inebriation ... 246 

124. FronrSir John Whitefoord,16th Oct. Thanksfor "The La- 

ment on James, Earl of Glencairn" ... ... ib. 

125. From A. F. Tytler, Esq. 27th November 1721. Criticism 

on the Whistle and the Lament ... ... ... 247 

126. To Miss Davies. Apology for neglecting her commands 

■ — moral reflections ... ... .. ... 248 

127. To Mrs Dunlop, 17th December, enclosing " the song of 

Death" ... ... ... ... ... 249 

128. To Mrs Dunlop, 5th January 1792, acknowledging the 

present of a cup ... ... ... ... 250 

129. To Mr William Smcliie, 22nd January, introducing Mrs 

Riddel ... ... ... ... 251 

130. To Mr W. Nicol, 20th February. Ironical thanks for ad- 

vice ... .,, ... " ... ... ... 252 

131. To Mr Cunningham, 3d March 1792. Commissions Lis 

arms to be cut on a seal — moral reflections ... ... ib. 

132. To Mrs Dunlop, 2-2d August. Account of his meeting 



INDEX. 593 

PAGE. 

with Miss L B , and enclosing a song on her 254 

133. To Mr Cunningham, 10th Sept. Wild Apostrophe to a 

Spirit! ... ... ... ... ... 255 

134. To Mrs Dunlop, 24th September. Account of his family 257 

135. To Mrs Dunlop. Letter of condolence under affliction 258 

136. To Mrs Dunlop, 6th December 1762, with a poem en- 

titled, " The Rights of Woman" ,.. ... ... 259 

137. To Miss B of York, 21st March 1793. Letter of 

friendship ... ... ... ... ... 261 

138. To Miss C , August 1793. Character and tempera- 

inert of a poet ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

139. To John M'Murdo, Esq. December 179 3. Repaying money 262 

140. To Miss B , advising her what play to bespeak at the 

Dumfries Theatre ... .. ... ... 263 

141. To a Lady in favour of a Player's Benefit ... ... ib. 

142. Extract to Mr. , 1794. On his prospects in the Excise ib. 

143. To Mrs. R ... ... ... ... ... 264 

144. To the same. Describes his melancholy feelings ... ib. 

145. To the same, lending Wert er ... ... ... 265 

146. To the same, on a return of interrupted friendship ... ib. 

147. To the same, on a temporary estrangement ... ... ib. 

148. To John Syme, Esq. Reflections on the happiness of Mr. 

266 

149. To Miss , requesting the return of MSS. lent to a de- 

ceased friend .. ... ... ... ... ib. 

150. To Mr. Cunningham, 25th February, 1794. Melancholy 

reflection— cheering prospects of a happier world ... 267 

151. To Mrs. R . Supposed to be written from " The dead 

to the living " .. ... ... ... ... 269 

152. To Mrs. Dunlop, 15th December 1795. Reflections on the 

situation of his family, if he should die— praise of the 

poem entitled "The Tax" ... ... ... 270 

153. To the same, in London, 20th December 1755. ... 272 

154. To Mrs. R , 20th January 1796. Thanks for the . 

travels of Anacharsis ... ... ... ... 273 

155. To Mrs. Dunlop, 31st January 1796. Account of the 

death of his daughter, and of his own ill health ... ib. 

156. To Mrs. R , 4th June 1796. Apology for not going 

to the birth night assembly ... ... ... 274 

157. To Mr. Cunningham, 7th July 1796. Account of his ill- 

ness and of his poverty — anticipation of his death ... ib. 

158. To Mrs. Burns. Sea-bathing affords little relief ... 275 

159. To Mrs. Dunlop, 12th July 1796. Last farewell ... ib. 

POEMS. 

The twa dogs : a tale ... ... ... ... ... 279 

Scotch Drink ... ... ... ... ,284 

The author's earnest cry and prayer to the Scotch representa- 
tives in the House of Commons ... ... ... 287 

The Holy Fair 291 

Death and Dr. Hornbook ... ... .. ... 296 

The Brigs of Ayr ... ... ... % . ... 299 



594 INDEX. 

PAGE. 

The ordination ... ... ... • "... ... 304 

The Calf 307 

Address to the Deil ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

The death and dying words of Poor Mallie ... ... 310 

Boor Mallie's Elegy ... ... ... ... ... 311 

To J. S**** ... ... ... ... ... ... 312 

A Dream ... ... ... ... ... ... 316 

The Vision ... ... ... ... ... ... 319 

Address to the Unco Guid, or the Rigidly Righteous ... 324 

Tarn Samson's Elegy ... ... ... ... ... 326 

Halloween ... ... ... ... ... .. 328 

The Auld Farmer' New-year Morning Salutation to his Aukl 

Mare Maggie ... ... ... ... ... 333 

To a Mouse .. ... ... ... ... ... 335 

A Winter Night ... .. ... ... ... 336 

Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet ... ... ... 338 

The Lament ... ... ... ... ... 341 

Despondency: An Ode ... ... ... ... 343 

Winter : A Dirge ... ... ... ... ... 344 

The Cotter's Saturday Night ... ... ... ... 345 

Man was made to Mourn : A Dirge ... ... ... 349 

A Prayer in the Prospect of Death ... ... ... 351 

Stanzas on the same occasion ... ... ... ... ib. 

Terses left at a Friend's House ... ... ... 352 

The First Psalm ... ... ... ... ib. 

A Prayer ... ... ... ... ... 353 

The first six verses of the Ninetieth Psalm ... ... ib. 

To a Mountain Daisie ... ... ... ... 354 

To Ruin ... .. ... ... ... ... 355 

To Miss L , with Beattie's Poems, for a New- Year's Gift ib. 

Epistle to a Young Friend .. ... ... ... 356 

On a Scotch Bard gone to the West Indies ... .. 357 

To a Haggis ... ... ... ... ... 359 

A Dedication to G — H , Esq. ... ... 360 

To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's Bonnet at Church ... 362 

Address to Edinburgh ... ... ... ... 363 

Epistle to J. Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard ... ... 364 

To the Same ... ... ... ... ... 367 

Epistle to W. S , Ochiltree ... ... ... 369 

Epistle to J. R , enclosing some Poems ... ... 373 

John Barleycorn : A Ballad ... ... ... ... 375 

A Fragment, ' When Guildford good our Pilot stood* ... 376 

Song, 'It was upon a Lammas Night' ... ... ... 377 

Song, ' Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring guns' . . . 378 

Song, ' Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows' ... ... 379 

Green grows the Rashes : A Fragment ... ... ... 380 

Song, ' Again rejoicing Nature sees' ... ... ... ib. 

Song, ' The gloomy Night is gathering fast' ... ... 381 

Song, ' From thee, Eliza, I must go' ... ... ... 382 

The Farewell, to the Brethren of St. James's Lodge, Tarbolton ib. 

Song, • No churchman am I for to rail and to write ... 383 

Written in Friar's Carse Hermitage ... ,* ... 384 



INDEX. 595 

AGEP. 

Ode to the Memory of Mrs. , of ... ... 385 

Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson ... ... ... ib. 

Lament of Mary Queen of Scots ... ... ... 388 

To Eobert Graham, Esq. of Fin tra ... ... ... 389 

Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn ... ... . , 391 

Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord, with the foregoing poem 393 

Tarn o' Shanter : A Tale ... ... .. ... ibj 

On seeing a wounded Hare a fellow had shot at ... ... 397 

Address to the Shade of Thomson ... .. ... 398 

Epitaph on a celebrated Ruling Elder ... ... ... ib. 

on a noisy Polemic ... ... ... ... ib. 

on Wee Johnny ... ... ... ... ib. 

for the Author's Father ... ... ... lb. 

for E. A. Esq. ... ... ... ... 399 

for G. H. Esq. ... ... ... ... ib. 

A Bard's Epitaph ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

On Captain Grose's Peregrinations ... ... ... 400 

On Miss Cruikshanks ... ... ... ... 401 

Song, \ Anne, thy charms my bosom fire ... ... ib. 

On the death of John M'Leod, Esq. ... ... ... ib. 

Humble Petition of Bruar AVater ... ... ... 402 

On Scaring some Water Fowl ... .,,> ... 404 

Written at the Inn in Taymouth ... ... ... 405 

at the Fall of Fyers ... ... ... ... ib. 

On the birth of a Posthumous child ... ... ... 406 

The Whistle .. .. ... ... ... ... ib. 

Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet ... ... ... 408 

On my Early days ... ... ... ... ... 406 

Song, 'In Mauchline there dwells six proper young Belles.* 410 

On the death of Sir James Hunter Blair ... ... ... ib. 

Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the Poems presented 

to an old Sweetheart, then married ... ... 411 

The Jolly Beggars : A Cantata ... ... ... ... ib. 

The Kirk's Alarm : A Satire ... ... ... ... 41$ 

TheTwaHerds ... ... ... ... ... 419 

Tne Henpecked Husband ... ... ... ... 421 

Elegy on the year 1778 ... ... ... ... 422 

Yerses written on the Window of the Inn at Carron ... 423 

Lines wrote by Burns on his Deathbed ... .. ... ib. 

Lines delivered by Burns at a Meeting of the Dumfriesshire 

Volunteers ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

The birks of Aberfeldy ... ... ... ... ib. 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ... ... ... 424 

Strathallan's lament ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

The young highland rover ... ... ... ... ib. 

Eaving winds around her blowing ... ... ... 425 

Musing on the roaring ocean ... ... ... ... ib. 

Blythe was she ... ... ... ... ... 426 

A rose bud by my early walk ... ... ... ... ib. 

Where braving angry winter's storms ... ... ... 427 

Tibbie I hae seen the day ... ... ... ... ib. 

Clarinda ... ... ... ... ... ... 428 



596 INDEX. 

PAGE 

The day returns^ ray bosoni bur:i3 ... ... ... ib' 

The lazy mist ... ... ... ... ... ib* 

0, were I on Parnassus hill ... ... ... ... 429 

I love my Jean ... ... .. ... ... ib. 

The braes o' Ballochmyle ... ... ... ... 430 

Willie brew'd a peck o' Maut ... ... ... ib. 

The blue eyed Lassie ... ... ... ... ... 481 

The banks of Kith ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

John Anderson, my jo ... ... ... ... ib. 

Tarn glen ... ... ... ... ... ... 432 

My tocher's the Jewel ... ... ... ... 433 

Then guidewife count the lawin ... ... ... ib. 

What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ... ... ib. 

The bonnie wee thing ... .., ... ... 434 

0, for ane and twenty Tarn ... ... ... ... ib. 

Bess and her spinning wheel ... ... ... ... ib. 

Country lassie ... ... ... ... ... 435 

Fair Eliza ... ... ... ... .. ... 436 

The posie ... ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

The banks 0' Doon ... ... ... ... ... 437 

Sic a wife as Willie had ... ..i ... ... ib. 

Gloomy December ... ... ... ... ... 438 

Evan banks ... ... ... ... .. ib. 

Wilt thou be my dearie ... ... ... .... 439 

She's fair and fause ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

Afton water ... ... ... ... ... 440 

Bonnie Bell ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

The gallant weaver ... ... .. ... ... 441 

Louis, what reck I by thee ... ... ... ... ib. 

For the sake of somebody ... ... ... ... ib. 

The lovely lass of Inverness ... ... ... ... 442 

A mother's lament for the death of her son ... ... ib. 

O may, thy morn ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

what ye wha's in yon town ... ... ... ... 443 

A red, red rose ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

A Vision ... ... ... ... ... ... 444 

Address to W. Ty tier, Esq. ... ... ... .. ib. 

To a Gentleman who had sent a Newspaper and offered to con- 
tinue it ... ... ... ... ... 446 

On Pastoral Poetry ... ... ... ... ... 447 

Sketch. — New Year's day ... ... .. ... 449 

OnMr. William Smellie ... ... ... ... 450 

On the Death of Mr. Riddel ... .. ... ... 451 

Inscription for an Altar to Independence ... ... ib. 

Monody on a Lady famed for her caprice ... ... ib. 

Answer to a Surveyor's mandate ... ... ... 452 

Impromptu on Mrs 's Birth Day ... ... ... 454 

To Miss Jessy L ... ... ... ... 455 

Extempore to Mr. S e 

Dumfries Volunteers ... . . ... ... ... 4 56 

To Mr. Mitchell ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

To a gentleman whom he had offended ... ... ... 457 



INDEX. 597 

PAGE. 

On Life, addressed to Col. De Peyster ... ... ... ib. 

Address to the Tooth-ache ... ... ... ... 458 

To R. Graham, Esq, on receiving a favour ... ... 461 

Epitaph on a friend ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

Grace before Dinner ... ... ... ... ... 462 

On Sensibility, to Mrs. Dunlop ... ... ... ... 462 

On taking leave at a place in the Highlands ... ... ib. 

Written in Friars- Carse Hermitage, on Nithside ... ... 181 

Epistle to R. Graham, Esq. ... ... ... ... 185 

Prologue ... ... ... ... ... ... 209 

To Dr. Blacklock ... ... ... ... ... 214 

Elegy on the late Miss Burnet of Monboddo ... ... 231 

The Rights of Woman ... .. ... ... 260 

Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle. ... ... ... 270 

CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 

MR. THOMSON AND MR. BURNS. 

1. Mr. Thomson to Mr. Burns. 1792. Desiring the Bard 

to furnish verses for some of the Scottish airs, and to 

revise former songs ... ... ... ... 465 

2. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Promising assistance ... ... 466 

3. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sending some tunes ... ... ib. 

4. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' The Lee Rig,' and ' Will ye go to 

the Indies, my Mary' .. ... ..." ... 467 

5. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With f My wife's a winsome wee thing,' 

and f saw ye bonny Lesley' ... ... .. 469 

6. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Highland Mary' ... ... 470 

7. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and critical observations ... 471 

8. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With an additional stanza to ' The Lee 

Bi£ 472 

9. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With < Auld Rob Morris' and < Duncan 

Gray' ... ... ... ... ... ... 473 

10. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With < O Poortith Cauld,' &c. and 

'Galla Water' ... ... ... ... . .. 474 

11. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Jan. 1793. Desiring anecdotes on the 

origin of particular songs. Tytler of Woodhouselee — 
Pleyel— sends P. Pindar's ' Lord Gregory.' Postscript 

from the Hon. A. Erskine ... ... ... 475 

12. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Has Mr. Ty tier's anecdotes, and means 

to give his own — sends his own ' Lord Gregory' ... 477 

13. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Mary Morrison' ... ... 479 

14. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Wandering Willie' ... ... ib. 

15. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Open the door to me, O !' ... 4S0 

16. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With < Jessie' ... ... ... ib. 

1 7. Mr. T. to Mr. B. With a list of songs, and * Wandering 

Willie' altered ... ... ... ... ... 4S1 

18. Mr. B. to Mr. T. * When wild war's deadly blast was 

blawn,' and ' Meg o' the Mill' ... ... ... 482 

19. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Yoice of Coila — criticism — Origin of 

' The Lass o' Patie's Mill' ..* AU 

20. Mr, T, to Mr, B, „> £§ 3S U ..> m 



598 



INDEX. 



21 

22, 



23, 
24, 
25, 

26, 
27. 

28. 

29. 
30. 
31. 
32. 

33. 

34. 

35. 

36. 

37. 
38. 

39. 

40. 
41. 
42. 



43. 
44. 
45. 
46. 

47 



48. 
49. 

50. 



Mr. B. to Mr. T. Simplicity requisite in a song— one 

poet should not mangle the works of another 
Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' Farewell, thou stream that winding 
flows' — Wishes that the national music may preserve 
its native features 
Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and observations ... 
Mr. B. to Mr. T. With < Blythe hae I been on yon hill' 
Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Logan, sweetly didst thou 

glide' — ' gin my love were yon red rose/ &c. 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Enclosing a note — Thanks ... 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With • There was a lass and s 

fair' 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. Hurt at the idea of pecuniary 

pense — Remarks on songs 
Mr. T. to Mr. B. Musical expression ... 
For Mr. Clarke 
With « Phillis the fair' 
Mr. Allan — Drawing from 'JohnAn- 



PAGEi 



was 



re corn- 



Mr. B. to Mr. T. 
Mr. B. to Mr. T. 
Mr. T. to Mr. B. 
derson my jo' 
Mr. B. to Mr. T 



With ' Had 1 a cave,' &c. Some airs 

common to Scotland and Ireland ... 
Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' By Allan stream I chanced to 

rove* ... 
Mr. B. to Mr. T. With * Whistle" and I'll come to you, 

my lad,' and * Awa wi' your belles and your beauties' 
Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Come let me take thee to my 
breast* 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. < Daintie Davie' ... 
Mr. T. to Mr. B. Delighted with the productions of 

Burn's muse 

With ( Bruce to his troops at Bannock- 



Mr. B. to Mr. T. 

burn . . . 
Mr. B. to Mr. T. 
Mr. T. to Mr. B. 
Mr. B, to Mr. T. 



With 'Behold the hour, the boat arrive* 
Observations on ' Bruce to his troops' 
Bemarks on songs in Mr. T.'s list — His 
own method of forming a song — ' Thou hast left me 
ever, Jamie' — 'Where are the joys I hae left in the 
morning' — Auld lang syne' 
Mr. B. to Mr. T. With a variation of ' Bannockburn' . . . 
Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and observations 
Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' On Bannockburn' — sends ( Fair Jenny' 
Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Deluded swain, the pleasure' — 

Remarks 
Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'Thine am I, my faithful fair'— 
' condescend, dear "charming maid' — The Nightingale' 
1 Laura' — (the three last by G. Turnbull) ... 
Mr. T. to Mr. B. Apprehensions — Thanks 
Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Husband, husband, cease your 

strife,' and ' Wilt thou be my dearie' 
Mr. T. to Mr. B. 1794. Melancholy comparison betw een 
Burns and Carlini— Mr. Allan has begun a sketch from 
[ The Cottar's Saturday Night' ... 



ib< 



487 
483 
489 

490 
491 

492 

494 
ib. 
495 
ib. 

496 

497 

498 

499 

500 
501 

502 

ib. 

504 
501 



50i 
599 
510 
511 

512 



513 

517 

ib. 



517 



INDEX. 599 

PAGE. 

51. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Praise of Mr. Allan—' Bank3 of Cree' 518 

52. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Pleyel in France — ' Here where the 

Scottish Muse immortal lives/ presented to Miss Gra- 
ham, of Fintry, with a copy of Mr. Thomson's col- 
lection ... ... ... ... ... 519 

53. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Does not expect to hear from Pleyel 

soon, but desires to be prepared with the poetry ... ib. 

54. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' On the seas and far away' ... 520 

55. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Criticism... ... ... ... 521 

56. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Ca' the yowes to the knowes' ... ib. 

57. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With * She says she loe's me best of a* 

— * let me in/ &c. — Stanza to Dr. Maxwell ... 522 

58. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Advising to write a Musical Drama ... 524 
• 59. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Has been examining Scottish collec- 
tions — Ritson— Difficult to obtain ancient melodies in 
their original state ... ... ... ... 925 

60. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Recipe for producing a love-song' — 

'Saw ye my Phely' — Remarks and anecdotes — 'How 
long and dreary is the night' — ' Let not woman e'er 
complain' — ' The lover's morning salute to his mistress' 
— ' Keen blaws the wind o'er Donnochthead/ in a note 526 

61. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Wishes he knew the inspiring Fair One 

— Ritson's historical essay not interesting — Allan — 

' Maggie Lauder' ... ... ... ... 530 

62. Mr. B. to Mr. T Has begun his anecdotes, &c. — 'My 

Chloris, mark how green the groves' — Love — ' It was 
the charming month of May' — 'Lassie wi' the lint- 
white locks' — History of the Air ' Ye banks and braes 
o' bonny Doon' — James Miller — Clarke — The black 
keys — Instances of the difficulty of tracing the origin 
of ancient airs ... ... ... ... ... 531 

63. Mr. T. to Mr. B. With three copies of the Scottish airs 535 

64. Mr. B. to Mr.>T. With ' Philly, happy be that day— start- 

ing note — ' Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair' 
— ' Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy'— (The reply, 
' Stay my Willie— yet believe me/ in a note) — Stock 
and horn ... ... ... ... ... 536 

Q5. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Praise— Desires more songs of the hu- 
morous cast — Means to have a picture of ' The Sol- 
dier's Return' .. ... ... ... ... 540 

66. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'My Nannie's awa' ... ... 541 

67. Mr. B. to Mr. T. 1795. With ' For a' that an' a' that/ 

and 'Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie- burn' ... ... ib. 

68. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks ... ... ... ... 543 

69. Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' Lassie, art thou sleeping yet/ and ... 

the Answer ... ... ... ... ... ib. 

70. Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' Dispraise of ' Ecclefechan' ... ... 544 

71. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks ... ... ... ... 545 

72. Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' Address to the Woodlark'— ' On Chlo- 

'ris being ill' — Their groves o' sweet myrtle/ &c— - 
Twas na her bonny blue e'e/ &c. ... ... ... ib, 



/ 2253* 

600 INDEX, 4,*tf / 

PAGE. 

73. Mr. T. to Mr. B. With Allan's design from ' The Cot- 

tar's Saturday Night' ... ... ... ... 547 

74. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' How cruel are the parents/ and 

'Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion' ... ... ib. 

75. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Thanks for Allan's designs ... ... 548 

76. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Compliment ... ... ... 549 

77. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With an improvement in ' Whistle and 
I'll come to you, my lad — ' this is na my ain lassie' — 

* Now Spring has clad the groves in green' — * bonnie 
was yon rose brier' — ■ Tis Friendship's pledge, my 
young fair friend' ... ... ... ... I 

78. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Introducing Dr. Brianton ... ... 5 

79. Mr. B. to Mr. T. * Forlorn my love, no comfort near' ... 5 

80. Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' Last May, a braw wooer cam down 

the lang glen' — ' Why, why tell thy lover,' a fragment 5«M 

81. Mr. T. to Mr. B. ... ... ... ... ... 5jf 

82. Mr. T. to Mr. B. 1696. After an awful pause ... if 

83. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Thanks for P. Pindar, &c— < Hey for a 

lass wi' a tocher' ... ... ... ... 51 

84. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Allan has designed some plates for an 

octavo edition ... ... ... ... ... ib 

85. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Afflicted by sickness, but pleased with 

Mr. Allan's etchings ... ... ... . *. 5tt 

86. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sympathy — encouragement.. .. ib. 

87. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'Here's a health to ane I lo'e 

dear' . . . . . . . . . . . . 55S 

88. Mr. B. to Mr. T, Introducing Mr. Lewars— Has taken a 

fancy to review his songs — hopes to recover. . .. ib. 

89. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Dreading the horrors of a jail, solicits 

the advance of five pounds, and encloses I Fairest maid 
on Devon banks' . . . . ... . . i 

90. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sympathy — Advises a volume of poetry 

to be published by subscription, Pope published the 
Iliad so. . . . . . . . . ib 



James Clark, Printer, Aberdeen. 






